


A First Day Chant

by Eumenides



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan, Canon Compliant, City Elves, F/M, Flashbacks, Flowers, Fluff and Angst, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Kissing, Post Trespasser, Post-Canon, Rated: T+/M- for sexual references/alcohol/minor language/mentions of prostitution & violence, Redemption, Sad with a Happy Ending, Spirits, Temporary Character Death, The Fade, The Hanged Man (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eumenides/pseuds/Eumenides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the rest of Thedas awaits the joyful arrival of a new year the Dread Wolf, consumed by his own lamentable quest, remains unmoved by the spirit of the season or by the yearnings of his shattered heart. A trio of spirits take the Wolf on a dream journey through the past, present, and future in hope of redeeming his tormented soul.<br/>excerpt:<br/>Through the slim arched window the moon hung too large in the jet black sky, pregnant with its own divine light and the Wolf's unholy purpose.  The fir trees bordering the lake were perfectly silhouetted against the celestial body whose radiance gave a luster of mid-day to the freshly fallen snow. It was a view he'd have once found soothing if not beautiful, but that was the past. No, The Dread Wolf could afford little interest in the treasures of this world. A flurry of snowflakes gently batted against the glass as his hand moved to unfasten the sash holding back a heavy velvet curtain. It was better not to look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vir Assan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here begins the strange story of how the nocturnal visitations of three spirits melted the icy heart of the Dread Wolf, the elf called Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is inspired by Dickens' A Christmas Carol, but it has nothing to do with Christmas. Jus' sayin'.

Vir Assan

The Way of the Arrow. Fly straight and do not waver. Be swift and silent. Strike true; do not waver. And let not your prey suffer.

 

 The elves sat huddled in the ruins of their people's legacy, hearts light, their bellies filled with First Day sweets and warm buttered rum. Their clear voices were raised in song foreign to the ancient stone walls and to the spirits which yet dwelt within their cold embrace. Exotic woods, unfamiliar to the merrymakers, popped and cracked a complementary percussion from the communal hearth.

 One of the men, a bit stronger and a bit older than the others busied himself at the nearby feast table folding something into a red square of linen before quietly slipping away from the holiday festivities.

 A young barefaced woman with loose ash blonde hair rose from the song circle and walked toward the retreating arcane warrior, brazenly swaying her full hips with each barefooted step. “Cillian,” she called after him coyly. “Where exactly are you going?”

 Her delicate Tevene accent drifted through the space between them warming the apples of the male elf's cheeks to a flattering flush. Cillian turned around, taking a few slow strides back toward his dear one. Their love was new and uncertain. He smiled, crinkling the white lines of June's mark around his eyes—a mark which he continued to wear not in honor of a false god but in honor of the tenacious people who raised him. “Sable, emm'asha, I'm just going to bring a little holiday cheer to our illustrious leader.” Cillian nodded toward a small wrapped bundle in his left hand and the flagon of rum in his right.

 Sable's face dropped as she crept closer, wrapping her arms around her slim shoulders. “Are you sure that's the best idea? He doesn't strike me as the festive sort,” she whispered, strangely still fearful of Fen'Harel's wrath despite the freedom his forces had secured for her and all she'd learned since joining his noble cause. Old fears run deep; it would take time for even the most open of minds to adjust to such new and unsettling truths.

 “You worry too much,” Cillian chuckled and shook his head. “I won't be long. I bet you won't even miss me.” He smiled warmly and carried on toward the Wolf's study, his armored feet clinking lightly against the mosaic tiled floor.

 Sable was left alone with her worry, straining her eyes in the low light until his long bronze encased figure disappeared into a veil fire lit hallway. Behind her one carol ended in a swell of laughter and sighs, and another soon rose up in its stead.

 

* * *

 

 Fen'Harel usually kept to himself when he wasn't giving orders. He spent most of his days locked away in his musty study or searching the Fade for whatever answers he sought. Cillian had known him before—well, known _of_ him at any rate—during his time with the Inquisition, when the Wolf had called himself “Solas” and stood at Lady Lavellan's side. The other recruits had not, nor had the ancients among them. They'd been drawn to the legend, the power, the chance to reclaim Elvhen glory. Cillian had other motives and other loyalties, and although he was sent to infiltrate Fen'Harel's organization, in truth the Wolf was not his enemy nor his true master's.

 One of Fen'Harel's sentinels stood watch outside his private library. This particular guard was actually sitting on a stack of worn books rather than standing and whittling at a chunk of pale wood with a pen knife rather than watching intently for would-be assassins or spies. Cillian slowed his pace and cleared his throat as he approached the ancient woman. Startled, she quickly slipped the vaguely canine shaped carving into a pocket in her dark robes and lowered the knife to her side.

 “Crafting more wolves for the master's army?” the younger elf jested. “You really have quite a talent there, Lieutenant Noori.”

 “State your business, fool,” she spat in highly accented Common. If Noori's complexion hadn't been so dusky nor the light in the hall so ominously green, Cillian was certain he'd have seen an embarrassed blush creep from the top of her bald head to the tip of her pointed chin.

 “A gift for Fen'Harel from the little people.” Cillian raised the flagon and the parcel toward Noori as he spoke.

 Her steely blue eyes searched his lavender ones as if deception could be discovered in the constriction of a pupil or the light refracted in an iris. Her dry, weathered hands took the bundle, hastily unwrapping it to reveal its innocent contents. She snorted and exchanged the parcel for the flagon. Pressing the pad of her thumb against the lever, she raised the domed lid of the pewter vessel and sniffed at its steaming contents. The lid fell back in place with a clink, and Noori passed the offering back into Cillian's waiting hand.

 “You know if you plan to poison him he will know—” Cillian opened his mouth to reply, but Noori continued before he could speak “—he will know, and you will die.”

 Cillian tilted his head to and fro as if weighing his options, his white hair falling over the right side of his face. “I don't doubt it.”

 Noori mumbled something to herself in inaudible Elvhen and rapped lightly with a tightly balled fist against the chamber door before opening the portal a crack and whispering into the study, “Ara seranna-ma, hahren.”

 “Fenedhis lasa....atish'all.” Cillian heard the Wolf curse in a low growl.

 Noori opened the door wide enough to slip inside and pulled the door nearly to a close behind her. The two ancients continued in a forgotten dialect of his ancestral language, leaving Cillian only able to pick up bits and pieces of their heated exchange. There was something about children, rashvine, and rotten halla milk? In between indecipherable words Cillian caught his name on Noori's tongue and moments later it slipped again from the lips of the Wolf. The door swung open; the sentinel emerged sighing angrily, her painted lips curved into a defeated frown.

 “His Grace will see you now,” she muttered through clenched white teeth.

 “Ma serannas, falon.” Cillian smiled at Noori as he briskly walked past her into the Wolf's den. The heavy door closed behind him, and he found himself alone with the man who would destroy the world.

 Gilded tomes; baskets of mildewed scrolls; and orderly stacks of parchment folios, charts, maps, and blueprints (mostly in old and early modern Tevene) crowded the small dark room. Four long tapers seated in an ornate candelabra perched on the Wolf's cluttered desk bathed the chamber in eerie blue light. The lone window remained shuttered tightly against Winter's chill. Fen'Harel glowered at the petitioner expectantly from behind the stack of books on his massive wooden desk.

 “Well, what is it you want?” The Wolf spoke to him in words he could better understand but not in the voice which was once familiar to him. The man had changed, his face stony in its expression, his tone cold and deep as the frozen lake beyond the shuttered window.

 Cillian swallowed the lump in his throat before speaking. “I come to wish you a merry First Day, Master Solas.” His head bowed slightly at the last.

 The Wolf cringed at the sound of his true name.

 “A gift from your disciples.” Cillian was certain not to look the Wolf in the eye as he timidly set the holiday treats before his commander between a mass of crumpled paper and a half empty ink well. “And...I'm sure the others would be pleased if you would join us tomorrow evening for a little celebration.”

 The Wolf barely regarded the gifts before balking at their bestower. “There is no room for revelry in this organization.”

 “Certainly you don't mean that, sir,” the younger elf dared to question.

 “That is exactly my meaning.” The Wolf raised his voice pushing the flagon just a little further away on the desk and twisting his face into a snarl. “There are no holidays in this cause. Indulging in intoxicants the evening before an important mission is irresponsible at best and suicidal at worst. While you celebrate the arbitrary arrival of a _new year_ my adversaries grow stronger and the tools I require buried deeper in the basements and crypts of insolent Tevinter noblemen.”

 Cillian looked at his feet silently waiting for the Wolf to continue his tirade or to coldly dismiss him to his duties.

 The Wolf groaned in frustration, rolled down the ivory sleeves of his silken tunic and fastened the cuffs with ink stained finger tips. “Go, and take this"—he paused gesturing toward the parcel and drink—"with you.”

 “Keep it, lethallin. One drink is unlikely to dull your sharp senses, surely.” Cillian was daring in his familiarity. The older elf stared in silence, at a loss for words. Slowly, Cillian backed toward the door and turned, reaching for the worn iron latch.

 “I know _why_ you are here, _lethallin._ ” The Wolf's low growl burned in the younger elf's ears and prickled the hairs at the back of his neck.

 Cillian's hand stilled on the cold metal door handle and he cleared his throat nervously. “I came only to wish you happiness in the new year, sir.”

 The Wolf chuckled quietly. They both knew the truth, and they both accepted the lie. The arcane warrior had proved an asset to the cause despite his deception, and his supposed secret mission had proved little threat to the Wolf's own goals. “Go,” he spat, “and tell your comrades if they must sing I ask that they not do so in the language of slavers. If I hear one more Tevinter carol in these halls—”

 “Understood, sir.” Cillian opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “And a merry First Day to you!” he shouted back toward the Wolf as Noori quickly pulled the door closed behind him.

 “You...you are lucky you still breath, seth'lin.” Noori blinked at him with wide, bright eyes.

 “Luck has little to do with it, my friend.” Cillian smiled at the sentinel before walking back down the narrow hallway. “Oh,” he called over his shoulder, “When that old rotten egg finally goes to bed you're welcomed to join us.”

 Noori made no reply only drew her whittling from her pocket and leaned against the rough stone wall.

 “We have ham!” Cillian added before disappearing through the arch leading back out to the main hall.

 

* * *

 

 Solas sat quietly at his table, resting his heavy head upon his left hand, a water stained chart detailing the distaff branches of the Alexius family tree sprawled out before him. He stared absentmindedly at his neat annotations in the margins.

 “Merry first day, indeed,” he muttered to himself in softly accented Common. The long pale fingers of his right hand reached awkwardly around the inkwell to capture the cloth wrapped bundle Cillian had left. Despite himself he peeled back the rough red linen to reveal a stack of warm hearth cakes freckled with red currents and orange flecks of candied citrus zest. He skeptically raised one of the fluffy cakes to his nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled strongly of cinnamon and vanilla and other frivolous things that were of no use to him.

 “Bah,” he said swiftly tossing the cake back into its wrapping and scooting his heavy chair away from his day's work. He stood stretching his arms over his head—his shoulders, elbows, wrists, and finger joints each sounding a pleasurable crack. Taking the fur embellished cloak from the back of his chair, he draped his stiff shoulders in velvety darkness—the mantle that was his pride and his dread. He yawned silently; the Fade awaited, and he was eager for its comforting embrace. Without so much as a gesture he dispelled the candelabra's gentle blue flames leaving the room in complete darkness. Before departing his sanctuary of academia and dust and stepping once more into the cage he'd cleverly crafted himself, the elf exhaled a long held breath—the moist heat puffing against the apathetic wooden door.

 The Wolf jerked the door open in one fluid motion. He strode into the hallway without a word to his guard. Given the hour his purpose and destination needed no explanation. Lieutenant Noori hurriedly pulled the chamber door closed and once again tucked her carving within the folds of her robes before scurrying after her master, following a few respectful paces behind his long, elegant strides. Holiday carols still drifted through the ancient manor, only now in the flowery style of Orlesian bards and accompanied by a rather flat sounding squeezebox.

 Another of the Wolf's ancient sentinels stood guard at the bottom of the spiraling staircase which led up to the tower where the Wolf slept. The second guard regarded Noori with a nod of his hooded head. Her duty completed for the day, Noori bowed stiffly toward her master.

 “On nydha, hahren.”

 The Wolf inclined his head in silent acknowledgment before the lieutenant took her leave. With one bare foot upon the first granite step, the Wolf placed a hand on the hooded sentinel’s shoulder and brought his mouth close to his ear.

 “Give them another hour, no more,” he spoke in the Elvhen tongue, his words metered and measured despite his frustration at his recruits' frivolity. The Wolf didn't wait for a response before drifting up the staircase, more veil fire torches flickering to life every few meters as he climbed the ancient narrow steps.

 These ruins never served as a temple to exalt a false god nor were chained slaves ever led up these stones to service their wanton masters in the night. It was a retreat once belonging to a kindly noble loyal to Mythal. It was a place the Wolf had visited only once in his distant past, but at the moment it served him well as a base of operations. The estate sat isolated on a small island surrounded by a perpetually frozen lake which was itself surrounded by a dense petrified forest. His quarters sat perched at the very top of the highest crumbling tower. Old magics and pure luck continued to keep the weather worn masonry bound in the ancient mortar.

 The low flames in the intricately carved fireplace cast long shadows on the turret's round walls and flooded the intimate space with inviting warmth. Once over the threshold the Wolf closed his dry eyes against the glow and pushed the door closed with his palms behind his back. His shoulders pressed to the door, he began unraveling the tightly knotted threads of his turgid mind. He pulled his lean body to its full height and moved toward the center of the room. He removed his cloak depositing it on a bejeweled chest at the foot of a large extravagantly dressed bed, before crossing over to a single diamond paned window. Pale moonlight accentuated the sharp angles of his long face, revealing every crease and scar—every tightly held secret and personal failing.

 Through the slim arched window the moon hung too large in the jet black sky, pregnant with its own divine light and the Wolf's unholy purpose. The fir trees bordering the lake were perfectly silhouetted against the celestial body whose radiance gave a luster of mid-day to the freshly fallen snow. It was a view he'd have once found soothing if not beautiful, but that was in the past. The Dread Wolf could afford little interest in the treasures of this world. A flurry of snowflakes gently batted against the glass as his hand moved to unfasten the sash holding back a heavy velvet curtain. It was better not to look.

 A neat pile of folded silk and wool soon joined the cloak at the foot of the Wolf's bed. Stooping slightly he placed a hand on a slim volume atop the bedside table as if he desired a little light reading before his rest, but he reconsidered sliding under the down filled coverlet and surrendering his body to the cold pleasure of rough muslin against his smooth bare skin. He breathed deeply readying his mind for the dreams to come—the dreams that always came, delicious and bitter guilty pleasures. He closed his eyes eager to look upon _her_ again—upon the love he cast aside, a hope he'd dashed with his own pride.

 

* * *

 

 When he dreamed of her he was always the Wolf, not the man she loved, not her cherished Solas. This time she was in the autumnal forest of her tender youth, her lovely body hidden from him by a long hooded cloak—wisps of her flowing hair peeking out from the edges of the rich green fabric. Leaves of blood red and gold fluttered from the ironbark trees to the mossy ground. The comforting fragrance of distant campfires and wet leaves drifted through the crisp, cool air. The Wolf kept his distance, leering from the lush undergrowth, for fear of turning her dream to a nightmare whether she proved able to see past his lupine disguise or not.

 He watched her hungrily from the shadows, happy that in dreams she allowed herself her missing arm—that not all the wounds of the waking world followed him into the Dreaming. In her unmarked left hand she clutched the handle of a crudely woven reed basket filled with flowers of various colors and shapes, some of medicinal use, others plucked simply for their beauty. He noted the violets amongst her harvest, a sign of good fortune in dreams and rebirth in death.

 His love stooped over a brickle berry bush to gather a bunch of wild sweet peas. She raised the bright pink and white flowers toward her hooded face and whispered her secrets into the fragrant blooms, delicate pleasures more suited to Spring than Fall. It was then he noticed the spirits which surrounded her, whispering in her elegant ears—spirits of courage and love too often easily twisted to demons. He followed her on timid paws as she flitted from one patch of color springing defiantly from the dead leaves to another—her fingers delicately tracing the edges of too green leaves and the soft potential of tightly closed buds.

 Then the mood seemed to shift. She dropped to sit on the damp earth, placing the basket beside her in the rich dirt. The Wolf moved closer, so he might better discern her actions. Her rosy lips trembled in the shadow of her hooded cloak, her left hand grasping at woody stems of fragrant rosemary. She pulled down and away ripping a long sprig from the low bush. Her thumb caressed the petals of a small purple flower, and a heavy tear drop fell to the ground.

 “Rosemary.” He heard her speak with soft concern in a voice he could never forget. “Rosemary is for remembrance...for Solas.”

 She placed the pungent herb in the basket as lovingly as a mother putting an infant to bed. Suddenly she turned her head wide-eyed, glancing toward the Wolf but beyond him as if newly aware of yet another intruder in her dream. Then, just as suddenly, her dreaming avatar vanished, leaving the Wolf alone in her woodland fantasy. He imagined some servant woke her from her reverie to tend to some important matter or another, and whoever it was their excellent timing likely saved her dreaming mind undue heartache.

 Then the Wolf heard—no he felt—someone—or rather something—behind him. The Wolf turned, rising up out of the underbrush, now wearing his soft elven skin instead of the wolf's tough hide. A light, a mass, presumably some curious spirit come to keep him company, coalesced in the distance drawing its form from the fading fabric of his heart's dream. As the spirit approached it took on a form familiar to him—the lean humbly clothed body, the gentle slope of his hooded head, the laughter lines which framed his violet eyes. He regarded the creature in disbelief. Perhaps it was merely the result of his own intrusive thoughts swelling up uninvited in the Fade. If not, only a demon would be so cruel, and demons rarely bothered to trouble him. The Wolf winced in pain, recognizing the sad face the apparition of his friend wore for him.

 “Aneth ara, lethallin,” the wisp spoke in a ghost's tone, a memory of mirth and warmth.

 The wolf tried to bend the dream to his will but to no avail. The brightly colored forest subsided, but the image of his murdered friend—murdered in passion by his own hand—remained.

 “Felassan?” The name came in a wary exhale from deep in the Wolf's sleeping lungs.

 The dead elf smiled and laughed through his tattooed nose. “This form suits my purposes, but no, Solas, I am not your friend. He is...elsewhere, I think.” The figment spoke the old tongue strangely in a familiar voice. He tilted his head and his eyes glistened in the green half light of the Fade. “I am regret. I am joy for others, but for you...I must be regret.”

 The Wolf had never met Joy nor Regret in his nocturnal wanderings, and knew not how to proceed. “Are you spirit or a demon?” the Wolf ventured to ask.

 “That seems an odd question for _you_ to be asking.” The ghost of Felassan circled around the Wolf, like a predator around its supper. “Are you trying to trick me, Harellan? I know all of your tricks...most of them anyway.” The shade rubbed an invisible wound upon his borrowed head.

 “ _That_ is not an answer,” the Wolf replied calmly.

 “No, I suppose it is not.” The shade stopped circling and faced the Wolf. “A spirit then, if you like.”

 “A _spirit_ of regret, come to show me the error of my ways then? To twist the dagger of my shame a bit deeper?” The Wolf turned away and closed his eyes tightly against the prospect of pain. “I do not entertain demons. You will have to take your game to some other unfortunate soul.”

 “I am no demon. Regret hurts, this is true, but it teaches. Allow me to share my wisdom with Pride. I make no demands.” Then Felassan's ghostly fingers were on his back, his icy breath against the Wolf's bare neck. The spirit's voice grew low and ominous as he whispered into the shell of the Wolf's pointed ear, “I'd not bargain for _your_ heart, Solas. I could not, for it is not yours to trade away. _I_ will not hurt you.”

 The Wolf knew to be cautious when dealing with such shades of grey. Often young spirits remained unaware of their true nature and easily fell prey to their misguided efforts along with the inexperienced dreamers they tempted, but Regret had an air of maturity—an uncommon aura of balance. The Wolf opened his eyes and searched the unnatural firmament of the Fade as if for answers—guidance—still acutely aware of the spirit at his back eager for his reply. He feared no spirit, and ultimately his greed for knowledge predetermined his decision.

 “I will take your council,” the Wolf muttered into the ether as one dream ended and another began.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bits:
> 
> ara seranna-ma – excuse me
> 
> atish'all – enter
> 
> ma serannas, falon – thank you friend
> 
> emm'asha – my girl
> 
> seth'lin – thin blood
> 
> lethallin – cousin/clansman
> 
> on nydha – goodnight (from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen)
> 
> aneth ara – friendly greeting (literally “my safe place”)
> 
>    
> Hi, there! Your comments, hints, tips, kudos, critique, and so forth are welcomed and encouraged. Thank you for reading. Please come again!
> 
> PS Sometimes I'll use “the Wolf” or “Fen'Harel.” Other times it will be “Solas” or “the elf.” Just know I'm changing things up intentionally not just for the sake of variety.


	2. Lathbora Viran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regret, in the guise of Felassan, and the Dread Wolf to revisit two "holidays" from the past, each fraught with beauty and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bits: (also in the end notes in case that's more convenient)
> 
> hahrenen – elders (pl. hahren) 
> 
> Ghilan'him banal'vhen – “the path that leads astray," a derogatory term for Arcane Warriors among elves who eschewed physical combat
> 
> Ghilana – guide, to guide (a fitting name, I think, for a Lavellan aiming to guide her vhenan away from a dark path) 
> 
> ma nuvenin – as you wish
> 
> var lath vir suledin – our love will endure

Lathbora Viran

The path to a place of lost love. A longing for a thing one can never really know.

 

 Scarcely had the last syllable of his consent passed his ethereal lips when the Wolf found himself clad in the mantle of his cause back in the halls of the ruined manor. Only it wasn't ruined. It was changed—restored—its walls freshly plastered and painted with vivid pigments mirroring the brilliant setting sun framed in the ornately paned windows which soared toward the main hall's vaulted ceiling. Feast tables lined the vibrant walls, piled high with all manner of tempting treats—still steaming smoked and roasted meats, pastries glittering with sparkling sugar crystals, tender cakes decorated with candied fruits and rich icings, ripe exotic fruits born from plants extinct in the modern world. Proud, kindly faces—so many familiar, smiling faces—festooned the seldom visited remembrance. Broad shouldered men and robust women sat in camaraderie debating magical theory, discussing plans for the future, and recounting their fond memories of a past beyond his own. There were far worse places his own regrets could take him. Given the grand scale of _his_ blunders, a scene from his impossibly distant youth, a banquet to honor the birth of a minor noble’s child, was indeed an odd place to find regret.

 “What am I to learn in this...place?” The Wolf looked to Regret for answers, but found the spirit obviously distracted by the new-found splendor of his surroundings.

 “They are your memories, not mine. Perhaps _you_ can tell me.” Felassan's spectral form levitated above the polished mosaic floor. His rough brown cloak fluttered behind him as he floated in the direction one of the windows, momentarily pausing to observe a gossiping gaggle of resplendently dressed elven maids. He raised himself higher to ogle the contents of their daring necklines. Disappointed in the incomplete nature of the elf's ancient memory, Regret slithered away toward his initial destination. The crystal palaces of Arlathan hung in the fiery sky, painfully close. Regret's pale fingers traced the memory of their sublime architecture against the smooth leaded glass.

 “They go back quite a ways. Don't they? Your memories?” The spirit turned his head slightly away from the view, the edges of his handsome profile washed in the orange glow. “Further back than any I've chanced to meet in all my wandering. 'Tis odd though. One so experienced remains so....”

 “'So' what?” the Wolf asked pointedly, a lone armored warrior in a sea of silk and brocade. A swell of laughter erupted from the clustered maidens drawing the attention of both dreamer and spirit.

 “Forgive me; I am here to offer wisdom—insight—not to scorn.” Regret's face turned back toward the setting sun. “You understand. Don't you, Solas? It is only my nature to dwell on shortcomings.”

 An uneasy silence fell between them, allowing the warm rumble of idle conversation to roar up like flames around them. The Wolf shifted his weight from one hip to another adjusting his imagined gloves and nursing the wounds Regret's unspoken insult had afflicted.

 “Well, then”—he spun away from the window as he began again in a lighter tone—“where are _you_ hiding? You must be here somewhere.”

 The Wolf glanced toward the back of the room where a small group huddled around a finely carved ironbark bassinet. His eyes soon rested upon two matching manes of auburn hair in the crowd—one in cascading ringlets crowned with a simple sterling circlet, the other shorn close at the sides and pulled back into a tail of delicate braids.

 “Ah, there you are!” Regret swooped toward him, wrapping his long fingers around his gleaming bracer and pulling the Wolf deeper into his memory. They drifted around gilded furniture and alarmingly _through_ the half remembered forms of servants and lords alike. With each step the Wolf's discomfort grew, his brow deeply furrowed and his mouth drawn into a definite frown. Regret stopped abruptly, standing between the Wolf and his former self. “My, you were a lovely thing weren't you? So very proud and full of promise.”

 Regret stepped aside pitting the Wolf face to face with his younger self. He had worn armor then too, shining a brilliant copper in the crepuscular light. A swath of soft teal wool was draped about his unburdened shoulders. The younger Solas, ever the watchful protector even on this the friendliest of occasions, stood dutifully next to his master as her emerald silk wrapped form stooped to scoop the celebrated child from the cradle.

 “Was I once so very young?”

 The spirit gazed upon him mildly, both of him, a breath and an age apart. He chuckled. “It appears so.”

 Then the Wolf dared to feast his hungry eyes upon _her_ in all her beauty and strength. Her's was a vision he'd dared not to conjure in dreams for fear that he might sleep forever, only to behold the goodness that was lost to him—to all Creation. The brightness of her spirit blinded, as surely in dreaming as it did in the waking world, even as it illuminated the one true path. She held the swaddled babe with such reverence against her breast, as if the universe itself was wrapped in the tiny bundle.

 “Mythal.” The Wolf spoke her name in a hushed tone, a prayer to the dead.

 Then, as if in reply, the memory of the woman spoke in the poetry of the old words—not to the Wolf but to yet another memory, the raven-haired lady of the manor.

 “Lavellan, my dear, she is a treasure—a jewel in the crown of Elvhenan.” Mythal spoke quietly in syrupy sweet tone, smiling broadly. All assembled watched as she carefully pulled back the gauzy blanket exposing the tiny pink tips of the infants ears, loosing her arms in the process. The infant's tiny hands reached for the Evanuris' lithe fingers, and Mythal allowed her to capture them.

 “Thank you, my lady,” the mother—a forgotten forebear of the Wolf's future love—answered warmly, her head slightly bowed as she clutched the edge of the empty cradle. Lavellan rightly knew to fear Mythal even as she welcomed her gracious blessing.

 “Look, Solas.” Mythal spoke to the stoic guardian at her side beckoning him closer to the infant. “You have never seen one so young—such potential, such promise.”

 The Wolf saw himself venture closer, timid, uncertain in his approach.

 Mythal laughed softly. “Come now, my little wolf. She won't bite. She hasn't yet the teeth.”

 Solas looked down into Mythal's arms and wondered at the fragile thing he saw there. He smiled, not knowing why. Lavellan's grip on the bassinet grew tighter, her knuckles white from the strain.

 “Would you like to hold her, Solas?”

 “May I?” Solas inquired shyly, as if embarrassed by his interest.

 Almost simultaneously a soft noise resembling a gasp came from the direction of the bassinet. Lavellan lifted a hand to her mouth, embarrassed by her alarm.

 “Not to worry, my girl. My wolf is fierce, but he is tame, I assure you. You would not hurt her child, would you, Solas?”

 “Of course not, my lady,” the Wolf's memory spoke with obscene sincerity, his eyes still fixed upon the child's form.

 Lavellan nodded slightly and smiled her consent despite her reservations. Mythal's wolves, her ghilan'him banal'vhen, had a reputation for brutality in battle and little else.

 Mythal disentangled her fingers from the child's grasp and passed her carefully into her guardian’s waiting arms. She fussed for a moment repositioning his larger hands to support the infant's delicate head and neck. When she was satisfied the child was in no danger of injury she stepped away beaming at the absurd vision of domesticity before her. A low chuckle bubbled up from her chest, and she smirked—a sharp flash of pearly teeth against blood red lips.

 As the Wolf looked on he could almost feel the weight—the lightness—of the child in his youthful arms. He recalled the slight tickling on his scalp as she pulled at the end of one of his braids. Just as he remembered the sweet smell of her skin and the unconditional trust in her tiny brown eyes. They had been brown. He also remembered that.

 “Look at you, Solas. Perhaps you will have one of your own someday, no?” Mythal turned to Lavellan rather pleased with herself. “What do you think, Mistress Lavellan? Wouldn't he make a fine father?”

 “Certainly, my lady. I can see it is so.” She smiled nervously and bowed her head in obligatory agreement.

 Regret ventured close again, carefully examining the young face of Pride. His hand came up to ghost over the scrawling dusky lines of Mythal's vallaslin, its elegant marks bending like branches in the breeze as the young man smiled at his master—his mother—the only source of light in his small world.

 “These were quite fetching on you. You miss them at times, I imagine. Belonging to someone—certainty of purpose.” Regret tore himself away from the memory to regard the older elf beside him. His gaze narrowed in careful consideration. “You have that scar to remember them by, at least. It lends a certain air of distinction, a scar. Don't you think?”

 The Wolf watched his younger self awkwardly holding the infant—the vulnerable future of his people cooing naively in the arms of its destruction. Time slowed to a painful crawl. The voices of Mythal and the others faded to silence as he stood transfixed by the gentle rising a falling of the infant's chest, dwelling upon what was to come—upon what he had wrought.

 A shrill whistle breached his idle distraction. In his flitting Regret had found the Lavellans' elder child. The solemn boy sat on a cushion in a sheltered nook, a golden lyre in his lap. His suntanned fingers danced over the strings playing music the Wolf forgot to hear.

 “You'd be amazed, Solas,” Felassan's voice called to him from across the room. “From the highest born to the lowliest beggar, so many with the same regret: never learning to play an instrument. Well done, young sir”—Regret patted the top of the young Lavellan's head—“It's one of yours too. Isn't it, Solas?”

 Regret was once again flying about the room on invisible wings, just below the gently glowing crystal chandeliers, admiring the lost grandeur of Elvhenan. He continued, “Certainly it's not a significant one but....there's still time. Perhaps the lute or a flute? The flute definitely—more compact, better suited to the traveling life.” The spirit came to a rest at the Wolf's side, his two bare feet finally firmly on the floor.

 “You certainly led a charmed life, Solas—quite a privileged life for a slave or whatever exactly you were to Mythal. Is slave the right term? Servant? Son? Regardless, to walk amongst so many fine people, the best of The People, no?” Regret noted the Wolf's reaction before continuing—the fresh bloom upon his freckled cheeks, the subtle trembling of his full lips.

 Still, the Wolf remained silent.

 “The hands and hearts that built the wonders of your crumbling world—the Vir Dirthara, the Crossroads, all wonder houses of old. And where are they now Pride, all these dear hearts? Sleeping, masked in a mirror, hiding, hurting”—the spirit mocked Compassion and laughed bitterly, his eyes boring into the Wolf—“some of them at any rate.”

 “I saved as many as I could,” the Wolf finally spoke for himself.

 “Come now, Solas,” Regret slowly hissed, the icy syllables of his name slipping like venom from smiling lips. “You don't really believe that.” He came to stand at the younger Solas' back and craned his neck over his shoulder at an unnatural angle. Regret draped a gangly arm around the young man's neck and fixed his pastel eyes upon the gurgling infant. The Wolf watched, biting his lip, fighting against the tears which threatened to tumble from his half lidded eyes.

 “What about this one?” The spirit snaked a finger toward the girl as if the memory of her pudgy fingers might grasp it. “Did you save her?”

 Solas looked away as a hot tear slid down his face. “No.”

 Regret backed away, satisfied. “That's too bad. Oh well, one can't reshape the very nature of existence without a _few_ losses. I imagine. It was true then as it is now.” When the Wolf failed to respond, Regret continued. “Did it really surprise you that the Dalish forgot so much? A society founded largely by uneducated servants and slaves...you should have known those with any sense, and capability, would follow you in uthenera when their wrinkles started to show.” The spirit grinned, pleased with himself. “Children raising children on half remembered bedtime stories whilst their hahrenen sleep away the eons.”

 “I...They deserved better,” he stumbled. The Wolf's voice sank to a low defeated gravel. “They _all_ do.”

 The spirit tilted Felassan's hooded head as if in thought, and then waved his hand: saying calmly as he did so, “Come, Solas. Let us see something else. Perhaps a regret a bit more fresh in your agèd mind?”

 

* * *

 

 The frescoed walls of Skyhold's rotunda sprang up around them. The familiar cawing of Sister Nightingale’s ravens replaced the lolling rumble of Elvhen conversation. The Wolf's stomach twisted when he saw her. If he hadn't known that she bore another—an old name, a relic from the world he'd destroyed—the Wolf would have thought her very name Regret. She was a beautiful, precious regret.

 The soft strains of Maryden's lute and the sweet fragrances of spiced cider and burning frankincense drifted into the rotunda as Ghilana Lavellan entered. She backed against the heavy door to close it, always eager to have him to herself. She was lovely and whole that night, another First Day's eve, dressed in a simple ring velvet frock with a modest scooped neckline. Her long hair was fashioned into a thick rope braid with a single satin ribbon woven through it. The delicate branches of Mythal's mark, a mark he knew too well, still framed the striking features of her smiling face.

 Regret moved to recline upon a tarp covered divan. He propped Felsaasn's feet up on one arm and rested his head on the other. He looked rather comfortable, as if settling in for an evening's entertainment.

 “This should be...enlightening,” the spirit said to himself, eyes fixed on the plainly dressed elf in the center of the room.

 The Wolf's former self sat at a small desk, busily recording the day's events in a slim volume—a record for the ages, the last testament of the great betrayer. His hand stilled as he heard _her_ familiar footsteps approach, the stationary quill allowing blue ink to seep through several unused pages. He lifted his grey eyes momentarily from the page, a subtle grin tugging at the edge of his lips. She was a distraction but not an unwelcome one, not then anyway. The elven maid placed her marked hand on the tall back of his chair. He dipped his quill once more into the well of blue-black ink and resumed his writing.

 “Do you tire of the party so early, Inquisitor?” he teased as he hurried to finish the entry.

 “No, not yet.” Ghilana leaned against the back of his chair, squinting her eyes, trying to read the elven script in his journal. The Wolf remembered the warmth of her presence, how her moist breath against the bare skin of his scalp comforted his troubled spirit even as it stirred the baser yearnings of his body. He laid down his quill and stood to face her.

 On tip-toe she leaned across the distance to kiss his freckled nose. “Everyone's been missing you, vhenan.”

 The Wolf ears burned to hear that word once more tumble from her sweet lips. It was painful to watch, knowing what came later, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from her—from the memory of the way _she_ looked at _him_.

 “Everyone?”—Solas pushed his chair closer to his abandoned desk and inclined his head playfully—“Or just you?”

 “ _I've_ been missing you.” Her fair cheeks blushed at the admission, but her honeyed eyes remained fixed on her love's. “Drunk humans are not my favored company.”

 “Oh?” He'd had the audacity to wear his best bedroom eyes as he replied, to flash her a knowing grin.

 “I'd much prefer that of drunk elves—tall, handsome, hobo apostate drunk elves,” Ghilana stepped closer and clutched the rough wool of his sweater with her left hand, pulling him into a chaste kiss before abruptly stepping back. She extended her right arm between them. “For you.” She held out a small box wrapped simply in bright red paper. “I meant to give it to you for your name day, but since you're uncertain of the date...Dalish don't celebrate First Day; I thought maybe you did.”

 The other Solas cautiously took the parcel. He remembered it was light in his fingers, the underside slightly damp, most likely from his love's sweaty palms.

 Ghilana watched him as he warily examined the offering. “You don't celebrate First Day either?”

 He shook his head. “No, but thank you for the gesture. I am afraid I have no gift to offer you.”

 “There are precisely 365 days until next First Day. Surely you will think of something by then.” She smiled, tucking a lock that had slipped from her braid behind her blushing ear. The magic of his mark briefly cast a green glow upon her cheek. “If not, I hold no grudges.” She waited. “Aren't you going to open it?”

 He smiled weakly, “Ma nuvenin.”

 Slowly he peeled away the thin paper, revealing a tiny lacquered wooden box. It was the sort of box in which a man might present a ring of promise or some other precious thing. Solas hesitated to lift the lid. His eyes darted to his heart, a question upon his brow. She only smiled and nodded in encouragement.

 The tiny hinge creaked as he lifted the lid. The Wolf watched as relief then awe pass over his younger counterpart's face. His vhenan had given him a gift far rarer than any golden ring or glittering gem—a clover with four perfectly formed leaves. It was an unexpected gift of hope, faith, luck...and love.

 “Vhenan...I—” he stuttered breathlessly, dumbfounded by her generosity. “Some men search a lifetime for such a treasure.” Discarding the box amongst his papers and artifacts, Solas held the clover up against the candle light to examine its delicately serrated edges. “You should not squander this on me.”

 “It isn't squandered.” His self deprecation rolled off her like raindrops on a slicker. “Helisma enchanted it for me. It should last a good long time, that is until you've decided how best to use it. Charms, potions, hexes, runes...I read it has many uses.”

 Solas placed the clover on the page of his open journal, near the binding, and carefully closed the leather bound book with a reverent hand. He was moved, more than he sound have been. It hadn't been the gift so much as the thought, the thought he knew he didn't deserve.

 In one desperate motion he turned, clutching her small body tightly in his arms. “Thank you.” He used the common tongue to show his gratitude, her first tongue, the language he would remember upon her lips in the cold days to come.

 She tucked her head under his sharp chin, her soft bosom pressed against his chest and her calloused fingers idly playing with the leather cord around his neck. The Wolf remembered the simple pleasure of soft tugs, the leather shifting against the back of his neck—the closeness.

 The Wolf also quickly remembered Regret who'd remained uncharacteristically quiet. The spirit remained on the divan, apparently content to let the Wolf's wounds fester unaided this time.

 “Solas?” Ghilana called to him.

 The Wolf turned his head, as if the memory spoke to him and not another man.

 His former self hummed in response.

 “In the fade...the fear demon—what he wrote on your gravestone—” The events at Adamant Fortress were fresh in everyone's minds, the painted griffon still drying on the plastered wall.

 “Don't think on it, vhenan,” he'd managed in a strangled whisper.

 “I just...I want you know, you never have to be alone.”

 He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued, “Never. Never again, not as long as I live.”

 “Well...then”—he kissed the top of her precious head—“you must—live forever, vhenan.” His past self swallowed hard at the last and his present self closed his eyes tightly against the bittersweet memory.

 She smiled against his chest, thinking his words merely sweet nothings. “I shall endeavor to, if only for your sake.” She tilted her head up to capture his lips in a tender kiss.

 “She wanted you that night.” Regret's haunting voice sounded in the Wolf's ear, spoiling the sweetness of the memory. “She invited you to share her bed as she had so readily her life, but you refused her both. You always refused her. Why?”

 So many painful memories washed over him—their first impulsive kiss in the Fade, the afternoon he'd dared to call her his heart, that night in Crestwood when she'd looked to him with such trusting eyes expecting a proposal rather than a broken heart and shattered dreams. There were others now too, more painful. _Var lath vir suledin_...if only it could be so, but it could not.

 “She did not know the man she loved.” When the Wolf spoke he sounded different—like weak man who was Solas.

 Felassan's face twisted into a mischievous grin. “The most foolish lies are the one's we tell ourselves.”

 The spirit floated toward the embracing elves looking intently into the other Solas' face, then slunk down toward the floor to better examine the shape of the elf's tight green trousers. He smiled gleefully, as if discovering a torrid secret. “But, you wanted her. I see it in your...eyes, can't you? You regret denying her the intimacy she sought. You regret not trading a path of pain for one of pleasure. Tell me Wolf, do you lust for her still in your solitude?” Regret's pale hand slithered over Ghilana's graceful backside as he made to stand. “Do you yet lie awake nights imagining her naked body yielding to your—”

 “That,” the Wolf barked, his voice resounding against the painted walls of the rotunda, “is quite enough.”

 The spirit stood erect, all mirth swiftly vanishing from his face, and walked casually toward his offended pupil. “Pay me no mind, friend.”

 Regret and Pride watched in companionable silence as Ghilana urged her heart to join the First Day festivities. He had put up a good fight too. Eventually, though, her charms won the day, and Solas allowed himself to be pulled out into the hall, where the two elves would spend the remainder of the long evening amid foreign songs and unfamiliar ritual. The other Solas closed the rotunda door behind him in an echoing thud, leaving the spirit and the dreamer alone with the memories of ravens and the half painted fresco.

 The Wolf ventured close to the desk and placed his hand on the closed journal.

 Regret sighed heavily. “So many regrets with that one. You are fortunate I truly am no demon, Pride,” he chided. “You regret walking that path for the short time you did even as you regret its abandonment—so too you regret walking the one you tread now, alone. You trade one regrettable duty for another—sacrificing the heart for the mind, the soul for the spirit.”

 There was a weight upon the Wolf's armored shoulder. He looked down to find Felassan's familiar hand upon the grey fur of his cloak. The spirit spoke once more with genuine compassion, “What you want isn't wrong only for your wanting it. You've walked the lathbora viran so long you fail to see the destination when it is right before your eyes. He saw it, your friend, and you killed him for it. Who else will pay for your blindness?”

 “I'll have no more of this, Regret. Please leave me,” the Wolf entreated in a broken voice.

 “I told you; these are but your memories, Wolf. There is no parting with them. Do not blame me for your regrets.”

 He turned to the spirit, seeing that in the amorphous lines of his face were figments of all the many faces of _his_ regret. “They are mine, all mine, but please haunt me no longer.” The Wolf knew not to whom he spoke, but his dream finally faded at his earnest request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bits:
> 
> hahrenen – elders (plural hahren) 
> 
> Ghilan'him banal'vhen – “the path that leads astray," a derogatory term for Arcane Warriors among elves who eschewed physical combat
> 
> Ghilana – guide, to guide (a fitting name, I think, for a Lavellan aiming to guide her vhenan away from a dark path) 
> 
> ma nuvenin – as you wish
> 
> var lath vir suledin – our love will endure
> 
> *crepuscular light is the light at sunset. I reached a bit far for that one, sorry. 
> 
> I changed the rating after giving it a bit more thought. I'm not sure what to rate this thing. I think it will end up a T+ or an M- (if such a thing exists).
> 
> Next chapter will be a little less heavy, as Compassion takes us to a late night card game in Kirkwall and back to Cillian and his Sable. This chapter got several passes, but please alert me if I missed stupid typos or something. Also, comments are appreciated.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Vir Atish'an

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole shows Solas what he's failed to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bit (Most things in this chapter are standard for this fandom, so there's just the one.)
> 
> Da'lenen- I'm saying this means children...go with it, please.

Vir Atish'an

The Way of Peace. The path of the healer and the mender.

 

 Then he was awake, staring blankly at the soft shadows dancing on the cracked and peeling ceiling. The fire still glowed warmly in the grate; little time must have passed while he'd journeyed the Fade at Regret's side. Beneath the layers of muslin and down, the Wolf raised a trembling hand to his bare chest. He rested his clammy fingers over his heart and studied its beat. The rhythm he found there was hurried and erratic—the skin hot. He closed his eyes tightly, visualizing the blood as it flowed through his organ in slowing pulses, measuring time—the passing away of each moment of this mortal life. When he was satisfied the calm cadence was restored, he removed his hand and rolled onto his side. His eyes fell to the journal upon his bedside table, to the creased leather spine and the slip of red paper protruding from its yellowed pages.

 His calamitous past had often haunted his waking thoughts, but never before had his shame manifested so forcefully in the Fade. Neither had he ever met a spirit quite like Regret. It had been an unexpected intervention he was not eager to repeat. Regret seemed genuinely intent on helping him, but to what end? Did some yet unseen force plot against his cause? Might still other shades plague him in his sleep? He hadn't long to contemplate his predicament before the sound of a muffled shriek, beyond his curtained window, rudely interrupted his musing.

 The Wolf dragged his tired limbs from the comfort of his bed and trudged toward the window, his arms wrapped about his bare torso for warmth. Curious, he pulled back the edge of the heavy drape and looked down his thin nose at the source of the disturbance. It was still snowing. The fluttering flakes fell silver and dark in the moonlight. Below he could make out two shadowed figures on the shining surface of the lake—his people certainly—though he could scarcely tell which ones from his position. Their hands were joined as they turned together awkwardly, slipping in slow circles across the ice. Then there was a low whoop as the larger of the two elves lost his footing falling to the hard surface followed by yet another higher pitched squeal of laughter as he dragged his smaller companion down with him.

 “Da'lenen,” the Wolf muttered through frowning lips, his bitter words fogging the chilled window briefly, before he let the velvet fall back into place.

 For a time he stood silently at the covered window, his nose against the soft fabric, his fingers nervously tapping against the goose-pimpled skin of his crossed forearms. There were hours until morning, too many hours. His body craved sleep, and yet he almost feared what dreams might come—almost. He found himself growing uncomfortably cold as he considered the poison-tipped arrows another less affable being might aim at him in dreams. With the moment of celestial alignment fast approaching, his mission neared completion. The consequences of his failure were far too great to leave himself vulnerable to influence, even by the most well-meaning of souls.

 Wards. Wards would help, at least a bit. The Wolf set to work placing a grid of glyphs around the small chamber. The task was quick and mindless, but in so doing he gave himself some ease. Lastly before retiring once more to the warmth of his bed, he retrieved his jawbone amulet from the drawer of his bedside table and looped its worn leather cord around his neck—excessive protection against binding, possession. Better prepared for whatever awaited him in the Fade, he slipped beneath the covers and closed his eyes tightly. The blackened bone were as ice against his skin—a dull cold comfort as he drifted toward dreams.

 

* * *

 

 It was his own room which greeted him in the Fade, although markedly changed, as was to be expected—his surroundings as they once were in a distant memory. The smooth walls were painted in the clean light of mid morning and a rich green pigment that gleamed as gold. The last bird calls of the dawn chorus, as well as a cool breeze, came generously from the open window. The crisp air softly kissed his freckled cheeks and silently fluttered the gossamer of parted lace curtains. Simple sylvan wood furnishings, sun-bleached and polished to a silvery white, replaced the dark, overly ornate accoutrements his people had secured for his use in the waking.

 A matching cradle sat next to the unmade bed in place of his musty side table. The elf apprehensively approached the tiny cot, heaving a relieved sigh when he found it empty but for a small stuffed wolf toy. He picked up the toy and raised its softness to his cheek; it smelled like her.

 A quiet knock sounded at the chamber door. He replaced the toy and waited, curious to see what knowledge this ancient memory might offer him—what the Fade had stored in this long forgotten dream. The knock came again, louder than before. Narrowing his gaze on the closed door, he chewed his lower lip and wondered what or who lay beyond it. He walked toward the exit, surely he could glean little from behind a locked door. The moment his hand was on the latch _it_ called to him from the other side.

 “Solas?”

 His hand stilled on the polished metal. That voice did not belong in that place, not at that time. Then it was no memory, not really—a simple meandering dream perhaps. He held his breath, waiting for the spirit to speak again or fade away back into the recesses of his sleeping mind.

 “Solas, let me in.” The sad lullaby that was Compassion's voice seeped under the bolted door and into the cracks in the Wolf's invisible armor. “Please. I want to help,” the spirit called to him again.

 He could not deny his friend; the rare gift of his company was not one he could casually turn away. His hand slowly unlatched the door to find only darkness beyond it.

 “Cole?” The elf strained his eyes against the darkness looking for a sign that he was not alone. There was only black. He jumped when the response came from the brightness at his back.

 “I haven't been here before. Her land, her legacy, her home in another life...another world.” Memories of Cole's human eyes appraised the tranquil room. The spirit looked much as he had the last time the Wolf had seen him; he still wore the too large hat and too small trousers, the familiar sallow complexion and weak jaw. It was a guise Compassion wore for the Wolf's sake, a kind remembrance of happier times. Cole stepped slowly toward the open window, taking in the view of glories unseen in an age. Then he turned, lifting his face so that the elf could see his sincerity more clearly. “She would like it, still.”

 The elf raised a questioning eyebrow. It was crumbling, dead—not even the trees beyond the frozen lake still lived. It was no place for _her_.

 The spirit drew near; he smelled of Spring flowers and forgiveness, mulled wine and undeserved acceptance. “This is where her heart hides. She would make it beautiful again if you let her,” he said as if rebutting his friend's unspoken objection. His watery blue eyes fell to Solas' bare chest, to the dark charm which lay against his heart. His ghostly fingers dared to touch it, only for a moment, before the Wolf jerked away.

 Realizing he was dressed in only his thin sleeping breeches, he reached for his mantle and it materialized at his whim. He covered his nakedness with its darkness and began again, his expression stern. “Why did you come to me?”

 Cole moved to sit on the edge of the bed, the tails of his tattered jacket splayed against creamy silk. “There is silence when the song ends. I don't want to hear it.” He shook his head violently at the last.

 The Wolf considered the cryptic words for a moment but failed to see the meaning...or perhaps it was only that he did not wish to see it. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and narrowed his eyes at the seemingly innocent boy.

 “Cole, a spirit came to me earlier this night—”

 “Yes, Joy—no Regret. He was here, before.” Cole bounced slightly on the edge of the mattress as he spoke.

 The Wolf lunged at the boy, gripping his shoulders tightly to stop his idle movements. “Do you know this spirit? Are you allied with it—compelled by some—”

 “He told me where to find you, but I am unbound.” Compassion's hand fell, warm, upon one of Pride's.

 The Wolf's icy stare softened and he loosed his grip. “I'm sorry. Regret is...unsettling.”

 “Please, let me help the hurt. There are things I can show you, happy things.”

 Fen'Harel looked away from Compassion toward the darkness beyond the chamber door. “You know you cannot help,” he said with resigned certainty.

 Frustrated, Cole twisted up his youthful face and slipped out of the Wolf's grasp, striding back toward the open window. The Wolf thought perhaps he made to leave, but he didn't.

 “How can you know?” Cole said quietly.

 The Wolf did not respond.

 “I think you are wrong. You are never wrong, but..but maybe you are.” The boy smiled under the brim of his hat. “Yes, maybe.”

 _Maybe_. A simple word. A dangerous word. A gateway to temptation—to ruin.

 “Compassion alone cannot change my fate”—the elf sighed, fearing yet another regret—“but I will not deny you your purpose, friend, not on this night.”

 Cole turned away from the window. “Thank you,” he said.

 Compassion took his friend's hand and led him through the darkness.

 

* * *

 

 Lace curtains, bird song, burnished furnishings, and silken bedclothes, all vanished. As did the morning hour, the luminous room, the cradle, and the stuffed wolf. They stood outside the ruined manor in their own time—rubble and snow now beneath the Wolf's bare feet instead of the softness of ancient rugs or the warmth of sun-drenched stone. Behind them the ruin rose up defiantly from the frozen lake. Even in the moon's bright light it looked black, a dark scar against a body of white. A sad sort of hush blanketed the scene. Where a short time before festive song and drunken laughter would have seeped into the night, only the faint aromas of spice and smoked ham lingered in the frigid air. Snow fell delicately around them and through the illusion of their forms.

 The sharp sounds of laughter and scraping against ice brought the Wolf back to himself. He slipped his hand out of Compassion's light grasp and walked out onto the lake in long swift strides. The spirit followed at his heels on hurried shuffling feet. The Wolf stopped a short measure from the other elves. The same two figures he'd spied upon earlier from his window were now unmasked to him in the moon glow.

 “I should have known,” he said dryly, bitterness wrinkling his nose. Of course it had been _her_ agent, Cillian, who had disturbed his peace. The Wolf had never bothered to learn the name of the woman who kept his company, but her face was familiar to him—an alchemist, a newly freed woman from Tevinter.

 Cole stood at his side wearing questions on his gaunt face. _Why did he allow a “traitor” in his ranks. Why hadn't he turned the mage away long ago_ _if he offended him so_ _? What did he have against hearthcakes?_ He didn't ask.

 They looked on in companionable silence as Cillian extended a helping hand to the flaxen haired woman laughing on the ice and as she stood on unsteady legs only to slip again into the arms of the knight enchanter. So too Pride and Compassion watched as two smiling mouths moved together is a sweet kiss—Cillian's hands wandering low, his fingertips pressing against the yielding flesh of the maid's generous hips.

 The sight of the young lovers seemed to please Cole much; he smiled softly at the affectionate display. “Sable did not want to fall, but then she did.”

 The Wolf cleared his throat and turned his attention to his distracted companion. “I didn't know those two were—involved. They are in the same unit; that could be trouble.”

 Cole bent down and plucked a small fuzzy white bloom from the ground; such a small thing was difficult to spot in the snow and ice, in the dark and gloom. He stood upright and offered the blossom to the Wolf. “Love still grows here, happiness too. Even in the dark there is light...in death, life.”

 The Wolf reached out as if he might take the offering, but resisted and only wrapped his cloak tighter around his body. He looked back to the couple on the ice.

 “He would court her? Now? With so many secrets between them...with so much at stake.” The hypocrisy tumbled thoughtlessly from his lips.

 “Seeking happiness, comfort, compassion, a mouth from which to draw breath, a hand to hold when the darkness falls...she has become important to him, as he has to her.” Cole slipped the flower into a pocket in his friend's cloak as he spoke, as if he might find it there in the waking.

 “Then they are both fools,” the Wolf said, knowing he was just as foolish.

  The lovers broke away. Cillian drew his sunburned hand up to Sable's face, and tenderly tucked the soft silk of her hair behind her right ear revealing a momentarily forgotten scar—one that would fade but never truly heal. She flinched against his touch and gently shook her hair back into place.

 “Don't,” Sable begged, her eyes closed tightly, her voice heavy with shame.

 The Wolf's face twisted as if in pain. The girl's tender flesh had been mutilated by some deranged hand, the sensitive tip of her right ear docked like those of Shartan on chantry walls. “Cole.” Soft sympathy crept into the Wolf's throat; he turned to the spirit, but found himself at a loss for words.

 “Bleeding, bruised fingers wrapped tightly around the rusty chain. The knife's sharp edge shines like his grinning teeth in the moonlight. 'No please! I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry'—a cruel cut by a cruel master.” Cole paused before continuing in a calmer, almost academic tone. “The second hurt more than the first, but it bled less. It always does.”

 Undeterred, Cillian once more swept the hair away from Sable's down-turned face, stroking it gently against the length of her neck and along the curve of her back. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to her disfigurement, as if a kiss might heal the wound. “Ar lath ma, Sable. All of you,” he whispered into the shell of her ear.

 Sable lifted her head, tears glistening on her cheeks, and wrapped her thin arms tightly around him, enclosing him in the warm softness of her crocheted shawl. There was pain behind them, and certainly more before them, yet in that quiet moment they knew contentment

 The Wolf looked away, his ears tinged a dusky rose. It had been a private moment not meant for his benefit; it was wrong of them to intrude. “We should go.” He pulled at Cole's patched jacket sleeve.

 Cole still watched them, a smile on his face and a sad glimmer in his eyes. “He will tell her tonight—about you and about her, about what may come, about what may not come.”

 The Wolf only watched the illusion of his hot breath in the cold air, his hand still on the spirit's sleeve.

 “The knowing will hurt. Then she will smile and his burdens will be hers. Lips pressed together in the dark—two made one. There is less, but there will be more.”

 The Wolf swallowed audibly and glanced back toward the manor, thinking of his regret.

 Then Cole was looking at him, not at the Wolf, but at the tired naked soul beneath the mask, under the mantle, behind the legend and the lies. “They want to help, Solas.”

 “I know.” The words puffed out of the elf's mouth and disappeared into the night.

 “Then why don't you let them? Why don't you let _her_? Together you are more.” Cole's voice strained as if the very thoughts behind the words brought him pain.

  “I can't.” The elf spoke more to himself than to anyone else. There was no time for idealism and sentiment—no time to risk the fate of The People on something as fleeting and as delicate as hope. He was no sapling. He could not bend; he could only break.

 “ _Maybe_ you can.” Cole tapped his fingers against his chin, sorting through his chaotic thoughts. The spirit realized he'd done little to comfort his friend. “Let me try again. I can't make _you_ forget, but...I have a better idea.”

 There was a low moaning in the Winter wind, and unsettling green leaked through the worn edges of the fading dream as if twisted into something else entirely.

 

 

* * *

 

 It was dark and quiet.

 “Where are we?” The Wolf summoned a blue flame in his hand, illuminating the gilded frame and still surface of an Eluvian against a roughly carved wall.

 “Kirkwall,” Cole answered simply.

 Kirkwall, so they were to visit friends, or perhaps enemies, depending on Varric's current disposition toward him—depending on what facts _she_ had chosen to share. The Wolf narrowed his eyes at the mirror. It was an odd thing to find so far north. He reached out to test its surface.

 “Daisy brought it here. The door doesn't open for her, but she keeps it to remind her of the thorns.”

 The Wolf let his hand drop to his side and turned to Cole, his brow knitted in confusion. “Daisy?”

 The question hung between them for a moment then Cole took his friend's hand and pulled him away from the mirror. “Come with me.”

 The Wolf put out his flame and allowed Cole to lead him through the dark, untidy dwelling; but his thoughts remained on the eluvian, the daisy, and the thorns. The front room was not as quiet nor as dark. Music, chatter, and torchlight from the streets outside invaded the small space. Without a word Cole slipped through the illusion of the front door, dragging the Wolf along after him. The music and talking grew louder, the world a bit brighter.

 They found themselves in a compact square of ornately painted multifamily homes, otherwise austere box shapes stacked four and some five high. At the center stood a great tree, a stately vhenadahl, the base of its substantial trunk lovingly decorated in red and white—the traditional markings that lingered. The low flames of red votives and taller pillars, inscribed with wishes for the new year, joined with smoldering mugwort and cedar smudge sticks in a circle of prayer at the tree's roots. The people—the elves of Kirkwall—gathered under the symbol of their heritage smiling and singing, embracing their loved ones returned for the holiday. A few humans and dwarves even counted in their number, some likely the children of mixed matings.

 When the Wolf first woke to the new world—the world born of his anger and short-sightedness—the city elves he'd observed had seemed no better than the Dalish. They bowed too low to their human betters; they casually mingled their precious blood; they accepted their sad lot in defeated reticence. These elves held their heads high; they raised their strong voices with no regard to curfews or fear of “shemlen” retribution; in their shining eyes burned an unquenchable flame. They knew of the “gods,” but they didn't rule over them. They sang older songs; they had remembered more than they had seemed.

 The Wolf turned to his friend. “The alienage?”

 “They don't call it that anymore. Varric changed things here, but _they_ have built it into something to be proud of. Their children will know a better world—they hope—even if they don't live to see it.” Cole left his friend and walked over to the warm glow of a lead framed bottle glass window.

 The Wolf followed. He watched as Cole rubbed the cuff of his sleeve against the frosted glass. “Look,” the spirit commanded.

 The Wolf brought his face close to the glass, sure to take shallow breaths so as not to obscure his view. An old man, likely the most agèd of the new people he'd encountered, sat with what must have been his grandson on his knee. Together they held a book; however, through the reclaimed glass and in the low firelight, the Wolf could read the lettering on broad leather spine. The boy looked away from the book and smiled broadly at his grandfather. The Wolf watched as the older man, a man who was but an infant to an immortal, leaned forward and pressed a kiss into the golden curls on his descendent's head. The man had little time left. _If fate was kind_ , the Wolf mused, _he would not live to lose his hope_.

 “By the Dread Wolf!” an irritated female voice called out behind them, drawing the Wolf's attention away from the window. “Come on, Lia! We're going to be late!” A trio of maidens dressed in their best frocks brisked by, turning the heads of young men as they passed on their way to a friend or relation's house—perhaps even the tavern.

 Another elf totted after her friends, fussing with her mahogany pigtails, her bare feet slapping loudly on the sandstone pavers. “I'm coming!” she called after them, her voice bouncing in her throat as she ran.

 The Wolf didn't wait for this “Lia” to disappear around a corner before refocusing his attention on thoughtful pair and their book. “Why show me this?” he said quietly, fogging the glass with his breath.

 The spirit shrugged, his face non-committal. “It was on the way,” he said turning to follow in the direction of the maidens. “We will be late too if we don't hurry. They are running out of mints.”

 Cole's words, as ever, made little sense without context, but context, the Wolf was certain, would be forth coming. He followed his friend out of the elven quarter, through the dimly lit Kirkwall streets. The city-state had long been known for its corrupt templars and thriving criminal underworld, and while cut-purses and lyrium addicts no doubt still lurked in forgotten corners, the City of Chains had changed considerably under Viscount Tethras' watch.

 They passed more elves gathered outside brightly lit homes in Lowtown, along with humans and dwarves—some taking a moment to share a pipe of spice with friends, others taking their heated, yet respectful, political debates away from sensitive ears. The pair walked on in silence, past the flirtatious drunkards in the Red Lantern District and the empty street stalls, into the heart of Hightown. In the distance the Wolf could see the minaretts of the new chantry looming over the city—high, but no higher than the peaks of Viscount's Keep, not like they were before.

 They approached a large estate displaying surface dwarf heraldry above a wide flight of grey stone steps. Cole scampered up the stones, all smiles. “I think this is it,” he said over his shoulder.

 The Wolf followed, but hadn't yet made it to the door when Cole's disappointed voice called to him. “Too many ghosts. It hurts here. No, this isn't right.” He came back down the steps, grabbing the Wolf's hand and pulling him along across the street. “This way, I think.”

 “Doesn't the viscount live in the keep?” Solas asked.

 “No. The old one did, but he's dead.”

 They stopped in front of another door, another fine house with brightly lit windows going up three levels—there was no heraldry, only a pair of pruned cypress trees and a bed of low flowers ornamented the entry. Cole leaned forward, sticking his head through the door. The Wolf heard his muffled laughter through the wood. Cole's head reemerged, a smile on his lips. “She ate most of them, but maybe there are more.” He passed through the door, taking the Wolf along with him.

 The vestibule was strangely appointed for a nobleman’s estate. With its knotted wood paneling, low stone furnishings, and bear skin rugs it looked more a tavern than a viscount's mansion. The walls were decorated with the stuffed heads of august rams, gurguts, and dragonlings and high shelves of empty amber and green liquor bottles.

 “Charming,” the Wolf muttered, releasing Cole's hand.

 “They are over there.” Cole pointed toward the warm glow coming from an archway on the ride side of the room.

 The uninvited guests ventured further into the estate, Cole filled with anticipation, the Wolf filled with dread.

 It was a study of some kind, if a man such as Varric Tethras ever bothered to study anything. A crackling fire blazed in a grand fireplace at the back of the room. The walls were lined with bookcases, _likely filled with unsold copies of the latest edition of Swords and_ _Shields_ _,_ the Wolf imagined _._ Both familiar and unfamiliar faces sat around an oil rubbed circular wooden table which was cluttered with cards, pewter tankards, and—ah yes—piles of pastel colored butter mints. Varric sat with his back to the fire along with Thom Rainier, the disgraced man they'd once known as Blackwall, two yet unknown elves, and one empty chair.

 “I must complement you on your new residence, Dwarf,” the male elf said placing his cards face down on the table and chucking three pink mints into the pile. “It doesn't smell the least bit of vomit.”

 “It's early yet, Elf. And, that's Viscount Dwarf to you.” Varric then looked across the table at Rainier. “You should know, Mr. Broody here always gets sarcastic when he's bluffing.” The dwarf tossed three pink mints and two yellows into the pot.

 Rainier erupted in boisterous laughter, “Well, regardless of Fenris' tells, that's too rich for my blood. I've lost too much pride to elves at card games already.” He tossed his cards toward the pot and pushed back from the table.

 “Oh? And which of our kin has taught you such a valuable lesson?” The dark-haired woman spoke playfully with a lilting accent still common to some of the Dalish clans. She wriggled in her chair, counting and recounting the sum of her bankroll.

 The Wolf knew full well to whom “Thom Rainier” alluded. He eyed the bearded man closely, watching as he anxiously shifted his glance to the narrow staircase beside the fireplace.

 “It was Solas, if you must know,” Rainier answered honestly before taking a pull from his tankard.

 A momentary hush fell over the room. The Wolf wondered where this would lead...if he'd soon be the center of a heated debate or the butt of a flurry of cruel jokes.

 “Oh,” the woman said simply in a changed tone. She shook her head and tossed her cards into the center of the table. “It seems I haven't the funds.”

 Fenris laughed through his nose. “Of course you don't.” He slid another pink and two yellow mints into the pot, calling Varric's raise. “Alright, _Viscount_ Dwarf, now we shall see.”

 They turned their hands.

 “Ha! Angels beat serpents, Elf.” Varric reached forward scooping up the rainbow colored candies.

 “How the mighty have fallen. Such excitement over a handful of sweets!” Fenris pushed his chair away from the table, grabbed his mug and brought it to his lips.

 From this new angle the Wolf could clearly see the white lines on the younger elf's face and arms, the old magic burned into his bronze flesh. “Those markings...I haven't seen magic of that sort since—”

 Cole cut him off, slipping into a memory that was not his own. “His mother called him Leto. The song burns, a pain unyielding. He wanted it, but _he_ doesn't. They hurt less now that his master is dead.”

 The Wolf understood enough, and so he let the matter drop. “What of the woman?” he asked the spirit.

 “He calls her Daisy, though now she thinks herself a rose. The thorn that pricks, the blood that's spilled—still smells as sweet. The clan is better off without Merrill and it isn't.”

 The sound of light footfalls descending the creaking wooden stairs drew the Wolf's attention from his friend. He found himself taking slow cautious steps toward the first riser, as if by compulsion. It was _her_. She was a vision in a long royal sea silk dressing gown, one arm neatly hemmed short. Her now bobbed hair was a tangle of dreamy waves. She was right there, right before him.

 “You're all still up?” Her voice, as always, was a sweet song to his ears—like the call of seabirds to a drowning man rising once again to the surface just before the undertow takes him.

 The heads at the table turned toward Ghilana Lavellan. Fenris stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scuffing loudly against the floor, and rushed to help her down the final steps. She didn't require the help, but she was too kind to deter his chivalrous nature. She took his hand and smiled weakly in thanks. 

 Varric laughed. “Didn't you know? That's how we celebrate First Day in Kirkwall. We stay up until dawn, or until we pass out drunk, _then_ we make love to our sweethearts or whoever else is willing, _then_ we sleep until Second Day and spend the rest of the new year trying to forget it all. Right Daisy?” Varric said reaching over to place a few extra mints in Merrill's pile.

 Merrill hummed in agreement and popped several of the offered treats into her mouth. Varric grinned at his old friend as he shuffled the worn waxed playing cards.

 “I hope we didn't wake you, Lady Lavellan.” Fenris moved to pull out the empty chair for Ghilana to sit.

 She shook her head. She ignored the chair drawn instead to the warmth of the fire. Cole took the offered seat in her place, basking in the company of his friends.

 Varric stopped shuffling the cards. “Hey, I thought I told you not to call her that, Elf. We're all friends here. Aren't we, Foxy?” He directed the last toward Ghilana.

 She didn't answer. The Wolf knew she didn't care what _they_ called her, as long as it wasn't Herald or Your Worship or Rabbit.

 Fenris lowered his head and groaned, his white hair flopping over his face. “I'm not calling _her_ Foxy,” he said in a low growl.

 “Ghilana is fine or lethallan, if you will.” She raised her one hand up to the warmth of the flame, warming the chilled fingers. “Really, Varric. Foxy?”

 “You should be glad he's not still calling you Lefty,” Rainier said into his tankard.

 “Hey, that was a good one. It's not my fault you can't appreciate the irony.” Varric continued with his shuffling.

 The Wolf came to stand beside his heart, so close that he could smell the lavender soap on her skin warmed by the fire. He was glad she couldn't see him; it had been hard enough before. The Wolf was not the man she'd loved. He couldn't be. He looked at her in the firelight, taking in all the small changes he had missed, those that hadn't been reflected in the dreams he'd shared with her. There was a sad darkness around her lovely eyes, even when she smiled. Light creases laid where once the vallaslin had arched across her gentle brow, and a few brilliant strands of silver threaded through the vibrant waves of her short hair. In his loneliness the Wolf had often recalled the beauty of Ghilana's hair—how the shining length had blown in the Haven breeze, the way the ends curled softly at the small of her back, the traditional braids she had worn with pride. The changed was a practical one, but he mourned the loss as surely as she had. So many changes in so little time. Ghilana's relative youth had been behind her when first they'd met—she'd considered Solas her equal not her hahren—but the Wolf knew it was not a handful of years that had changed her so. No, it was him—the undue worry, the pain, the heartbreak he had given her instead of the lovers' tokens, the kisses...the vows she deserved. He knew, and he hated himself a little bit more for it.

 Something beside the fire caught her attention. The Wolf followed her gaze to where it rested on an instrument leaned against the hearth. Ghilana stooped to pick up the pear shaped cittern carefully with her strong hand. She tilted it just so allowing the firelight to catch on the curl in the richly lacquered wood.

 “This yours Varric?” she asked examining the wood grain more closely.

 “Huh?” Varric turned in his chair to see Ghilana holding the cittern. “ _That_ came with the place.”

 “Do you play?”

 “No, but Bran does.”

 “Don't tell me in addition to sorting your correspondence and doing your laundry that poor man's also your court minstrel,” Rainier said, thumping his tankard onto the table.

 “I ask, he does it. Who am I to argue?” Varric always knew how to make the best of things.

 “The craftsmanship is exquisite...and someone just left it here?” Ghilana said in disbelief.

 “You want it? Consider it a First Day gift. I think there's a kazoo around here somewhere for Bran.”

 “No, I couldn’t. I”—she looked to the place where her marked hand used to be—“A thing like this shouldn't be sitting around collecting dust.” She placed the instrument against a bookshelf further away from the drying heat of the fire.

 Another arrow in the Wolf's heart.

 “So, should I deal you in, Foxy?” Varric set down the deck and took a swig of his ale.

 “Who's winning?” she asked approaching the table.

 “No one,” Rainier said flatly.

 “We're playing for mints...that and bragging rights since this bunch hasn't got two coppers to rub together between the lot of them,” Varric said tossing another candy toward Merrill.

 “That's not true, Varric.” Merrill slipped the mint into her mouth before continuing in her defense. “I happen to have a tidy little savings to my name. I just know better than to risk more than I'm willing to lose.”

 “A lesson learned too late,” Cole interjected in a soft tone.

 “It's difficult to risk anything when one eats one's entire bankroll,” Fenris jeered.

 Merrill stopped chewing her candy. “I was hungry,” she said, unapologetically.

 Ghilana laughed at that, and the Wolf was glad. “I don't think I'm in the mood for cards,” she said.

 “Well then, traditions be damned, I'm turning in,” Varric said hopping down from his chair and took a last long swallow from his tankard.

 “That's the best idea you've had all night.” Rainier belched on the last of his words, obviously a bit worse for his drink.

 The evening was winding down. Fenris bid the gang farewell before heading back to his own home for the evening. Varric and Rainier both exchanged evening pleasantries with the ladies before toddling up the stairs to their rest. The Wolf took one of the empty chairs at the table, as did his heart so many miles away from his sleeping self. They all sat at the table in silence; Compassion, Pride, and the two clanless women. The fire crackled and the wind rattled the windows.

 Ghilana smiled across the table at the other Dalish. “If you want to stay up, I'll gladly keep you company, Merrill.”

 “Won't you be tired?”

 “Yes, but I'm not eager to return to my dreams.” She sighed and picked up one of the mints. She placed it on her tongue and let it melt in the heat of her mouth. “Huh, these are pretty good.”

 Merrill fidgeted in her chair, the other woman obviously intimidated her. Much had come to light in recent years. She had questions—many questions—yet there was only one she'd dare to ask.

 “Lethallan?”

 Ghilana hummed in response her busy with another candy.

 “I wanted to ask you something.” Merrill spoke slowly, uncertain in her words.

 “I'll gladly share what I know.” Ghilana swallowed and slouched comfortably in her chair.

 “The Dread Wolf, did he—”

 Ghilana didn't let her finish. She could anticipate where the conversation was headed.“He didn't take me...that's what the Dalish always ask.” Her tone was harsh, probably harsher than she had intended. “The little he had of me I gave to him freely.” She angrily crammed a handful of the tiny pastel confections into her perfect mouth and narrowed her eyes at Merrill.

 The Wolf turned his body away from the conversation and made to stand. This was not a conversation he intended to overhear. His ears were already burning red with embarrassment and frustration.

 “No. I didn't mean to..I would never.” Merrill stumbled over her words appalled by her unintended insult. She calmed herself as best she could and started again. “If I know anything it is that I know nothing.”

 The nervous woman's wisdom surprised the Wolf. He returned to his seat. Ghilana too seemed affected by Merrill's heartfelt words. Her expression softened. She nodded, encouraging the other woman to continue.

 “I only wanted to know...there are things Varric will tell me and things that he keeps private. There are still others I doubt he's certain of himself. I want to know from you—you who knew him best—is he a good man?” Merrill held her breath, her eyes closed, awaiting a response.

 It was such a simple question and yet also a complicated one.

 Ghilana rose from the table and walked over to Merrill, brushing past her love's ghostly form as she did. She placed her hand upon the other woman's shoulder. “Yes.” She smiled then, and it was as a dagger in Solas' heart. “Solas is a good man, and...it means something that you thought to ask.”

 Solas reached out to grasp her hand across the table, but his immaterial body failed him. “Vhenan.” The endearment slipped so effortlessly from his lips. He'd forgotten how sweet it tasted.

 Merrill looked up at Ghilana of clan Lavellan, at the woman who would give herself to save the world. She covered her hand with one of her own. “I...I have made mistakes, Ghilana. Others have paid dearly for my foolishness, yet my friends—Hawke, Varric, even Fenris in his own way—they helped me to be more than my mistakes. They saw something in me worth saving.” She laughed lightly with tears in the corners of her eyes—in all of their eyes. “There are times I can't say that I see it myself, but I trust in them and am glad for their faith. Don't give up on him.”

 A single drop slipped from Ghilana's eye.

 "She wants to think of the things that make her happy, but they make her sad." Cole stood by the fire holding the cittern awkwardly like a child in his arms. "Her mother taught her, _every good boy does fine_." 

 It was then Solas saw them. Two glowing masses, red and festering, curled around his heart's ankles like playful cats.

 “Cole? Is she plagued often by demons?” Solas turned to his friend, panic blanching his face white.

 “Fear and Desire. They will not harm her; she is too bright. Still, they linger because she fears what she desires and she desires what she fears.”

 Then she disappeared like dust in the wind, as did the fire, the cittern, and the little mint candies. The still green of the raw Fade surrounded them, penetrated them, bound them together—the spirit and the dreamer.

 “I would have liked to have stayed a bit longer,” Solas said to his friend, his voice heavy and cracked with emotion.

 “I know.” Cole reached out and collected a warm drop which clung precariously to Solas' sharp jaw. “I don't understand. I wanted to make you happy.”

 “You did, a little.”

 A little? Perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps now he would see.

 “Then will you go to her?” Cole asked expectantly.

 Solas pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head, concealing the redness of his eyes, hiding himself away from Compassion. It was the Wolf's voice that came forth when next he spoke. “I can't. My people, they may die.” _And I will have killed them_ , he thought, but dared not to say.

 “Everything dies,” Cole said with finality looking up at the warbling stars in the Fade's ever-changing sky. “In death, rebirth. The tender buds return in Spring.”

 The Wolf remained silent.

 “Someone else may come to you tonight.” Cole took his friend's hand, and looked intently at the hood where his grey eyes should have been. “Do not fear her,” he said, his voice sounding painfully close, as if it was within the Wolf's own head.

 He hadn't time to respond to the spirit's command before he found himself awake once more, alone in his darkened chamber, tangled in a mass of muslin and confusion—hope and dread.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bit (Most things in this chapter are standard for this fandom, so there's just the one.)
> 
> Da'lenen- I'm saying this means children...go with it, please.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is really long for me. Please tell me if it's too long. I thought to break it up, but I wanted to stick with Dickens' 5 stave format. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading. As always comments are encouraged. I was pretty exhausted when I finished, so the last half didn't get multiple editing sweeps. If you catch something let me know. 
> 
>  
> 
> 11/24 I added a bit of Cole dialogue that has been in my notes for weeks. Before I didn't think it fit, but I just liked it too much to leave it out. Hopefully "every good boy does fine" is familiar to anyone who's ever taken music lessons...it also goes with Lavellan having just said that Solas was a good man. Okay, that's it tootles.
> 
> 11/26 I reworked the paragraph where Solas observes Lavellan by the fire. The flow seemed off before. Let me know if it reads alright to you.


	4. Din'anshiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious spirit takes Solas on a dark journey to a regrettable future.

 Din'anshiral

A journey of Death.

  Compassion had left him to his loneliness—to the cold, empty darkness of his chamber. The fire had dwindled to embers; only a dull red glow reflected off the hammered bloodstone fireback in the hearth. He shivered, his teeth chattering slightly of their own accord. He must have thrashed in his second sleep. The duvet laid crumpled on the floor, the sheet coiled tightly around his waist and leg, leaving his chest exposed to the chill. The frigid fingers of his left hand were clutched around the blackened bone amulet, the cord taut against the back of his neck. He exhaled a long held breath and released the charm.

 “'Someone else may come,'” the elf echoed Cole's parting words flatly and swallowed, trying to wet his dry mouth. He sighed and sat up. Then he saw it.

 Even in the low light it taunted him from the bedside table—the worn slip of red paper protruding from the crisp ivory pages of his journal. He shouldn't have kept the book. He hadn't even written in it since...since everything had gone sideways, since his changed world had fallen apart. He'd often wished he'd have left it behind, somewhere safe where she could have found it. Maybe then she would have understood, but...then his pride had robbed her of even her own tongue. She could never have understood, not his words nor his duty. For that small comfort he was grateful.

 He picked up the book, measuring its icy weight in his left hand.

 Shuffling over to the window, the journal tucked securely under his arm, he drew back the curtain. Everything was still below; even the snow had stopped. Fenrir's snout was just visible above the treeline; the dawn was not far off.

 Again he shivered and turned his attention to the fire. His steward had assembled an odd assortment of woods in the fireside rack—bits from far flung places hiked in through the eluvian network—twisted hunks of Nevarran cypress, neatly cut sections of willow branches, and roughly split hedge apple logs. He squatted to select some willow and cypress and leaned into the hearth to arrange the wood amongst the glowing coals. Sitting back on his haunches, he extended his palm toward the hearth as if to warm himself. The fire obediently reignited to meet his need. The flames lapped rhythmically against the exotic timber, painting his sharp features in light and then shadow.

 “'Do not fear her,'” he echoed Compassion once more, listlessly, into the heat.

 A long finger flicked idly at the slip of red paper. The journal was heavy in his hand. Tired grey eyes looked from the fire to the book then back into the hearth—as if he might chuck it into the flames, as if the fire might consume his past and allow him to forget the true price of his failure.

 _No_ , he thought, _not tonight. Not ever._

 There was a heavy, Loden wool upholstered wingback chair beside the hearth—soft and inviting. He settled back into its worn cushions, positioning the journal in his lap. His fingers dragged lightly over the cover, leaving dark trails in the thin layer of dust that had collected on the august ram leather.

 With trembling hands he opened the book to the page still marked by the red paper. He withdrew the makeshift packet that contained the clover, and lifted it to his nose expectantly. There was only the stale mustiness of abandoned knowledge—the familiar fragrances of mildewed tomes, candle smoke, and ink; it no longer smelled like her. He looked down at the open journal. On the left, a rough sketch of one of the Solasan shards. Neatly printed notes in the margins detailed where the relic had been found. On the right, the flowing script of the entry he'd penned that First Night's eve in Skyhold, a personal entry. The date was recorded at the top of the page according to the old calendar. Four years had passed, to the day. Before four years would have winked by in an instant; now, it seemed a lifetime. He read the old words slowly, savoring their meaning, observing the moment of his doom.

> _My love is a betrayal. Her heart beats, as humming bird's, wildly in her breast. There are days I know it matters little, this fragile thing between us. Then there are days I cannot bear not to touch her, not to be near her._

 His eyes lingered briefly on the spot where the ink had bled through, where his heart had entered, had peered over his shoulder attempting to discern the hidden meaning in the words of her dead ancestors.

> _It isn't the morality of the lie nor the immorality of the truth—it is only how long one can bear the weight._

 He closed the token back into the book and cradled it in his lap, staring off into the fire. Despite his friend's advice, it would be easier to stay awake—to descend to his study or rummage through the larder for a sweet cake to distract him from the conflict within. But the chamber was warm, the chair comfortable, and soon he closed his eyes, the dancing flames bathing the world behind his thin eyelids a bloody crimson. His mind wandered back to a secret place, to a time before—before he had been slain in the arms of his love, before he had destroyed his world, before he had tasted the bitterness of betrayal or grief. The faded memory hid quietly in the deepest recesses of his mind—a sacred place to skip stones and tell stories, a safe place to dream or to hide from meddling spirits.

 

*** * ***

 

 It came to him slowly, first in lovely pale colors and then in vaguely familiar shapes of graceful flowering vines and stately golden needled firs. It had been so long since he had visited the memory that some of the details were muddled. Flowers native to the Hinterlands sprang up in place of those he had forgotten. The peaks and valleys of the rolling hills in the distance seemed to shift even as he looked upon them, but much was also the same. It was a landscape frozen in time, a secret place teaming with wisps and dreams that could never truly be again.

 A chorus of blue eyed cicadas called to their mates, accompanied by the soothing hum of gathering magic in the blue glass spires of Arlathan above and the soft percussion of leaves rustling in the breeze. The lake was still in the morning light. In reality the “lake” had been a pond; to his once young eyes it had seemed an ocean, so it would always remain in memory.

 Standing at the water's edge he could almost remember the stories the man who had been as his father had told him in a lilting sing-song voice. He could nearly recall the twinkle in his kindly eyes and the wisdom of his guiding hand. There had been another world trapped under that shining surface, a drowned forest where nymphs and merfolk had made their humble homes. At night so too the dark water swallowed the bright pinpricks in the sky, so the fairy people could dream amongst the stars. They had been simple stories without observable morals or lessons—fanciful explanations of something as elementary as a reflection in a mirror.

 Assured that the frayed edges of the vision had securely knitted together, he waded out into the cool water until it dampened the hem of his breeches. Minnows darted, unseen, around his ankles as he relaxed into the pleasurable burn of the sunlight on his bare chest. Squatting he reached down into the shallows, skimming his fingers over the bed of stones slick with algae. When he found one suitably round and flat he smiled in triumph. It had been an age since he had indulged in something so simple, so utterly inconsequential.

 He stood, his right shoulder toward the opposite bank, his index finger hooked gently around the edge of the basalt stone. A mere six skips had been his childhood record, yet even that had been a source of pride. Squinting against the bright sun he drew the stone toward his chest. In one fluid motion he expertly flicked his wrist and released the stone with the easy grace of an ancient athlete flinging a wooden discus.

 The stone skimmed along the surface between one world and the next, rippling the mirror image as it traveled. He shielded his eyes with his left hand and counted the soft splashing sounds, _one, two, three, four, five, six_...

 “Plop.” The rock succumbed to gravity disappearing beneath the water.

 “So the record stands,” he said, chuckling to himself. He bent down to retrieve another stone.

 Then the darkness came. Gleaming day turning swiftly to darkest night—an unexpected manipulation of his dream, an invasion of his private haven. His calm deserted him. He let the dream fall away and rose to face the unwelcome intruder.

 The spirit was utterly unknown to him. Shrouded in a black hooded robe, it approached him slowly, silently. Its bulky garment concealed the spirit's chosen to guise to him, but from the sway of its hips and the subtle manner in which the fabric draped over its form he gathered it likely wore the face of a woman. One grey hand extended from the darkness, grasping a glowing stave shaped a bit like a shepherd's crook or perhaps like a scythe. Magic crackled around the staff sending sick red embers into the churning green of the Fade.

 When she came near, he stilled completely, unable to speak or move. The air around her stately form was heavy with gloom and foreboding—thick and hot. Perhaps she was a spirit of misfortune, but since he gave little credence to fortune—good or ill—he imagined her rather a spirit of Dread, a kindred spirit come to commiserate with Fen'Harel. Reaching deep within himself, he quieted his mind and peered directly into the blackness where Dread's eyes would be.

 “You have found me. I should have known better than to hide from one such as you.” Although the elf smiled, his voice was rough in his throat—tired and defeated.

 Dread tilted her head as if in consideration but remained silent and kept her distance just beyond his reach.

 “Compassion told me not to fear you. I will heed his wisdom. Show me what you will, so that this nightmare might end.” He bowed his bare head to the specter at the last, submitting to the spirit's will.

 Without a word, Dread embraced the Wolf, the cloaked arms surrounding his small pale form in an uncertain darkness to which he readily surrendered.

 

* * *

 

 When the darkness had lifted a city sprang up around them. The elf turned away from the spirit to observe his new surroundings. He didn't understand. It was Kirkwall once more, although slightly changed, not quite as Cole had revealed to him in his previous dream. The Lowtown streets were deserted but for a pair of stern city guards on their evening patrol. The severe architecture of the city seemed some how more bleak, pale, and sullen—as if mourning its very self. Distant cries and moans and stench of death and despair hung in the turbid air. He knew not whether this was the future or the past, or some strange parallel reality of Dread's own imagining.

 “What happened here?”

 As he'd expected Dread did not answer, not in words or thoughts. She only pointed her staff across the empty square in the direction of the tavern, The Hanged Man.

 “Please lead on, my friend. I will be grateful for any insight you might offer, but the day will soon be upon us. I have duties to attend in the Waking.” The elf stood tall as he addressed Dread calmly.

 The spirit nodded her understanding slowly and moved away from him, drifting toward the tavern. The elf obediently followed behind the river of her black robes as if carried along by a calm current.

 Dread stopped in the torchlit entrance and lifted her hooded head slightly gesturing above the door. The elf knitted his brows together in confusion but looked where the spirit directed. The plain sandstone walls were as he'd remembered them when he'd passed them previously, but where before a morbid effigy of a condemned man had hung upside-down now there was displayed a different more diminutive figure. In the twilight it was difficult to make out all the features of the new storefront signage, but the stout form, the roguish crimson tunic, and exposed broad chest were all unmistakable. The wooden dwarf was freshly painted in bold primary colors, his head covered with a vivid blue execution shroud.

 It made no sense. This certainly was no memory of the past, and if it was instead a vision of the future it was without doubt one he had not foreseen.

 “Varric? A hanged as a traitor?” He turned to Dread, hoping for an explanation, but she only pulled open the rusty iron door and ushered him into the tavern. The heavy door swung closed loudly behind them.

 The tavern was humbly appointed with wooden tables and long benches, stark hanging iron lanterns, and an open fire pit. The pungent odors of liquor, pipe smoke, and something not unlike urine drifted through the dank haze. As he followed Dread toward the carved stone bar, the elf couldn't help but notice the assorted stains on the rough wooden floor. Some may have been wine, but others were surely blood. Small groups of poorly dressed men and women—strangely all human—sat at the tables, slowly nursing tankards of cheap ale. The odd shout or belly laugh cut through the low rumble of drunken conversation. Dread stood next to the bar and motioned toward an empty stool. He nodded knowingly toward his guide and took the offered seat.

  The proprietor stood at the opposite end of the bar, making idle conversation with one of his more inebriated customers. He was a large, grinning man with a full red beard. He had the look of a decent fellow, but the elf could sense straight away that a dark heart hid behind his affable mask.

 “What knowledge may we find here, falon?”

 No sooner had the question left his lips than did the tavern door screech open loudly. The few relatively sober heads turned. A woman came in from the cold—a tart dressed in a gaudy purple skirt, ill-fitting corset, and shiny silk slippers. The thin lace shawl she wore over her head and bare shoulders would do little to protect her from the night's chill, but such was the uniform of her sad profession. The door swung closed once more with an unsettling clang.

 Solas watched thoughtfully as the slight woman approached the bar. There were dark circles around her large bright eyes and a redness indicative of crying or perhaps drug addiction. Regardless hers was not a happy lot. She groaned quietly as she sat on the stool beside his. Her shawl fell away revealing messy brown pigtails and two dainty pointed ears as she leaned over to retrieve a coin from a hidden compartment in her corset. She was familiar to him—one of the young women he and Cole had observed.

 “Lia?” he whispered to the spirit. “Why has this come to pass?”

 It pained him to see such potential squandered—false affection bought cheaply in soiled bordello sheets. Still Dread ignored his query remaining silent, unmoved, next to the bar.

 Lia placed the dull coin on the counter with downcast eyes. “A brandy...please.” Her voice was quiet, lifeless.

 Somehow the bartender had heard her order above the tavern tumult, or perhaps it was only that he had finally noticed the scantily clad woman at the counter. He sallied over, a decisive frown upon his thick lips.

 “You know we don't serve your kind here,” he said in a thick Starkhaven brogue pushing the coin toward the elf. “You can drink your paltry pay back at the Rose,” he snarled.

 She pushed the coin back toward the barkeep as if it was all some harmless misunderstanding. “A brandy,” she said again, a bit louder than before. “Please.”

 The man was little amused by her small act of defiance. He swiftly reached over the counter and grabbed her sensitive ear, violently pulling her off her stool toward him. Solas stood reflexively, his fists balled at his sides, as if he could come to her defense, but then he remembered it was a dream. He could not. The wooden stool fell to the ground in the commotion, drawing the attention of the other patrons. Some stood to get a better look. The inebriated man from the end of the bar crept closer attempting to glimpse the treasures under the tart's skirts.

 The barkeep lifted Lia's head close to his mouth. “Get the fuck out,” he growled loudly into her ear canal. Then he addressed his audience, “You'd think with those huge ears she'd be able to hear a bit better.” He laughed. They all did.

 He released her abruptly, perhaps intending for her to fall, but she landed safely on unsteady feet. She pulled her shawl tightly around herself and turned toward the door. The drunk man stopped her before she could leave, displaying for her the best false pity he could muster in his current state. He swirled the amber liquid in his snifter, slowly shaking his head.

 “Aww,” he crooned with a hiccup. “Here, have a brandy, little bunny.” He leaned forward to pour the liquor down her sweetheart neckline, grinning into her modest cleavage to the last drop.

 The tavern roared with laughter as the disgraced woman shuffled toward the door. There was little that could bring one such as her lower than she had already fallen, but Solas thought in her departure she held her head a little lower, that she slumped her narrow shoulders just a bit more. She laid her small hand upon the filthy latch and headed out into the night.

 A man in the crowd, dressed in the fittings of a city guard shouted above the laughter. “That damned rabbit lovin' dwarf ruined the lot of 'em, he did!” He raised his mug toward the barkeep. “That's puttin' 'er in 'er place, messere!”

 “Enough of that,” the barkeep said loudly with a low chuckle. He pulled a mug of sickeningly pale ale for the worthless letch at the bar. “Gregor, let us have a song!”

 A long, dark, moustachioed man lounging on the stair sprang to life and adjusted the pegs of the bent neck lute strapped about his neck. “What shall I play, then?”

 A portly woman with a dirty face stood up near the fire with her drink raised high. “Sing the one about the Wolf and his bitch!” she cackled merrily.

 The others at her table raised their tankards in turn, shouting their agreement in slurred cheers and overly exuberant ayes.

 Gregor plucked and strummed the strings, the minor chords high on the lute's stout neck. It was a slow tune, something like funerary or military march. The troubadour flashed a fierce toothy grin as he began in a gravely falsetto.

> _"Friends, I am the Wolf, please listen to me,_  
>  _for I misunderstood to a **dreadful** degree._  
>  _The last of my race,_  
>  _the peril they'd face_  
>  _when I fell to my pride_  
>  _by the hand of my bride.”_

 When that first sad verse was finished other drunken voices joined in the second out of key and time, but the dreamer and the spirit didn't stay to hear it out. They followed poor, little ruined Lia out into the darkness. Solas pondered the bard's song as he walked briskly at Dread's heel. There was something there, some twist in this vision of the future that demanded explanation—later perhaps.

 They followed Lia's path through the empty streets. Freezing rain began to fall, filling the dreamer's nostrils with the dark scents of wet stone and damp dead things. Lia's small dark figure lead them through the maze of Lowtown and beyond, into what was the lively Elven Quarter in another dream. Here it too had changed. It was a dreary sight, even for an alienage.

 The tenement walls which had been painted in vibrant colors like Dalish aravels were now a sad shade of dusty brown, likely intended to mimic the natural shade of the stone beneath. Despite the early evening hour, few of the high windows glowed with hearth and candle lights. Many were haphazardly boarded up—shards of glass on the ground evidence of recent vandalism. At the center of it all, the vhenadahl had been cut down to its painted roots, and the square looked painfully empty for its absence.

 A silver haired man, the same old man Compassion had shown him through a bottle glass window, sat on his knees in the damp sawdust and sand around the tree's remnants. Solas watched as Lia thoughtlessly passed her neighbor's shaking huddled form and slipped into one of the dreary little hovels. Instead he came to stand at the old man's side. The man wore a black band around his left arm—an obvious sign of mourning, although not an elvhen custom. Solas placed a hand on the broken man's hunched back as if he might comfort him in his grief, but to a ghost of the future the well-meaning gesture was worthless.

 An emaciated tabby cat slinked out of a shadowed alley and rubbed its bony side against the old man's thigh, but the animal's action was not to be mistaken for a small act of kindness. When his efforts afforded him no reward he stalked away to scratch and gnaw at some other closed door. They were all beggars here.

 “Ma da'lath,” the old elf sobbed into shaking, liver spotted hands. “Will death not take me too?” His salty tears fell to the worn knees of his rain dappled trousers and onto the twisted dead roots below. He couldn't help but wear his fresh pain on his sleeve, such is the burden of love, the cost of enduring.

 The rain continued quietly, collecting shallow puddles, tapping a soft percussion against tile and tin roofs. 

 Solas closed his stinging eyes, head bowed, lips straight. “Spirit—” he began but choked on his own words. “Spirit. The boy...Lia...Varric, what brought these tragedies to bear?” This was not the final peace he had envisioned for the unfortunate people of this world. Would the humans ignorantly seek retribution against these poor men and woman even with a compassionate Divine Victoria on the Sunburst Throne? Would the pointed tips of their ears that marked them as his kin in turn mark them ripe for the punishments he alone deserved?

 Dread did not speak, only faced away toward the rising waning-moon and offered her right arm, glowing staff still in hand. Solas moved toward the spirit, cautiously extending a shaking hand to clutch at Dread's black coat. She spread her dark robe before him momentarily, wrapping him up in her darkness, before revealing to him one final vision of this dark future.

 

* * *

 

 He first looked down to see his bare feet standing on ice and snow. The Frostbacks' stately peaks soared up around them. Such a clear night would prove bitterly cold, but despite the falling snow and his poor state of dress he didn't feel the chill. Dread walked before him leaving petite but deep prints in the powdery snow. He followed silently a few strides behind, listening to the lonely call of wolves in the distance. They fought against the wind as it howled through the valleys—every slow step a hard fought battle won.

 Finally they reached their destination. Dread stepped aside to reveal a familiar clearing, an unmistakable empty place where Tarasyl'an Te'las, _his_ fortress, had stood in one form or another for an age. Only a sick green glow drifted up from the hole in the earth where Skyhold should have been. Monuments littered the mountain pass, Chantry sunbursts of iron and wood, miniature paragons chiseled from hard volcanic rock, and even stacked stone shrines marked in white and red paint.

 He walked, dumbfounded, amongst the forest of markers surrounding the maw, stopping to read a name here and there. He recognized some; many more he did not. Cassandra Pentaghast, Zevran Arainai, Cremisius Aclassi, Alistair Theirin, Lace Harding...Cillian of Clan Ralaferin. He shook his head violently at the last, his calm finally spent, and turned on the spirit lingering at his back.

 “You show me this horrible fate—this twisted vision of events yet to come—but offer no explanation, no guidance, no counsel. Where is the wisdom in that?” he spat at the dark figure.

 Even these venomous words did not prompt the spirit to speak. Dread regarded his anger only a moment before carrying on through the field of monuments and gesturing with her staff toward what remained of Skyhold's forward gate house. Only a few feet of crumbling bridge extended from the cliff into the abyss. And there at the edge he saw them, two small female forms huddled at the precipice.

 Solas moved toward the women with renewed urgency, weaving between the gravestones in his flight, leaving the spirit to her slow skulk behind him. The closer he drew, the louder his heart thrummed within his chest and the stronger grew his sense of dread. Soon he knew them both. Sable, with her flowing honey hair and exposed clipped ears, and beside her his heart, _his_ Ghilana. The younger woman shuddered against the elder, pressing her face into Ghilana's ring velvet collar, into her crop of soft waves.

 His heart, in her infinite capacity for kindness, embraced her city cousin with what remained of her left arm, drawing her into the warmth of her cloak, and whispered something unheard into her disfigured ear. Sable nodded slowly, stepping away from Ghilana. Solas watched her as she stooped and cast a single embrium bloom into the pit. The bloom flashed a vibrant red, as it fell silently through the air thick with magic, before turning to ash and vanishing on the breeze.

 “Vir lath sa'vunin.” Her prayer was plain and true, but ultimately would go unanswered as there were no gods nor heroes left to guide this dark world.

 Her ritual performed, Sable laid a consoling hand on Ghilana's shoulder before she limped away toward the small caravan of aravels and wagons, harts and horses, elves both marked and barefaced that gathered silently at the treeline beyond.

 Solas crept nearer his heart. In her right hand she held a lovingly bundled nosegay of white and blue violets and sprigs of flowering rosemary—a sad bouquet for an abandoned bride. He could see swollen redness around her precious eyes, the pain etched deep in her furrowed brow. Then he heard her wail. It was a dead sound, strangled and wretched. So, he too cried to see his love in such pain. They were slow, hot tears, tears he might have easily held back in the Waking, but it was always easier in the Fade, to feel things, to release what he held so deep inside. He approached the shuddering image of his heart and tried to wrap her up in his worthless arms, but his will failed him. She slipped through his fingers like so much sand through an hourglass.

 Dread came once more to stand beside the elf. He would have asked Dread who it was his heart mourned with such passion, but the question was pointless and the answer painfully clear.

 “Ir tela las ir Fen halam, vir am’tela’elvahen,” Lavellan sang sweetly into the wind and reluctantly tossed the flowers over the side—an offering to the dead, a deferred dream relinquished.

 He wearily watched her tiny feet poised on the edge of the abyss, pebbles tumbling down into the depths along with her wasted tears.

 “I am unworthy of your grief, vhenan,” Solas whispered into the shell of Ghilana's ear.

 Ghilana turned away from the void and looked at him or perhaps through him. Regardless for a fleeting moment it was almost as if she could see him. Then she vanished, as did Sable, and the caravan of elves in the trees.

 “Spirit, where did she go?” There was nothing left to restrain his anguish. His words thundered from his lungs in sobbing howls. He was on his knees. “What will become of Lavellan?”

 Dread playfully tilted her head, and at once the hood fell away to reveal a familiar mane of wild red hair. Milked over eyes that should have been brilliant amber green pierced his soul with their empty stare. The ghoulish image of Mythal wore one long gaping wound where once she would have worn a string of polished black pearls or faceted emeralds set in silver and gold. Glistening cabochons of dark blood dropped like matricidal rubies from her too pale neck.

 Solas recoiled from the apparition, scrambling to regain control of the dream, trapped between monstrous Dread and the nightmare's edge. The spirit laughed heartily at his apparent terror, but the laugh was not Mythal's. And when at last the spirit spoke it was in another familiar voice.

 “Worry not, Dread Wolf. You will not die alone.” Dread twisted Mythal's pale lips into a mischievous grin and continued in Asha'belannar's rich timbre, “When you would not bend, you forced her hand. When you could not kill her, you bound her to cut out her very heart.”

 Dread strode arrogantly over to the edge, her dark robes trailing ominously behind her dominating form. Solas heard her broken bones creak and crack with each encroaching step.The spirit came to stand uncomfortably close to the dreamer, so close that he could smell the stench of her dying breath. She trailed a pale shriveled finger down his bare chest and smiled for some unknown, undoubtedly perverse, reason.

 “But, what are two people—what is one bleeding heart—compared to the world? It matters not if you win or lose this war, boy, the waging is its own end. When the Wolf won, when the Wolf failed...” She laughed again.

 He remained still, silent, waiting for the dream to end, for the dawn to come.

  “You _should_ have paid the price,” Dread announced in a low, cold tone.

 _I never wanted to hurt her,_ _not_ _any of them_. He thought but didn't say.

 “Still you did, and you will. But...she is strong—young and vibrant. She does The People proud. The People would have endured without Mythal, without your Veil. She too will endure, empty and hallow, without **you**.”

 Solas turned away from Dread, tears shamelessly tumbling down his freckled cheeks. “Is there no hope?” he whispered into the ether, his voice strained, cracking under the weight of Truth.

 Dread leaned playfully on her grim staff considering Solas' desperate inquest. She shook her head slowly, laughing silently through her wrinkled nose. “There can be no hope for the Dread Wolf, old friend.”

  Then, without ceremony, she pushed him over the edge into the pit of veilfire, into the bottomless grave the Wolf would dig for himself.The memory of Ghilana Lavellan's tear-stained face became a distant point of light as he fell deeper into the abyss. Solas did not fear the fall. There would be hope.

 “Telanadas.” The word slipped effortlessly from his lips even as the dawn came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bits:
> 
> ma da'lath – my little love (referring to the old elf's grandson)
> 
> vir lath sa'vunin – we love one more day (taken from the elvish eulogy “In Uthenera”)
> 
> ir tela las ir Fen halam, vir am’tela’elvahen – when the Wolf failed/won, we lost The People to war (taken from “Where Willows Wail” in The World of Thedas Vol. II)
> 
> telanadas – nothing is inevitable
> 
> Chapter 5 will be the last entry in this little story. Expect plenty of halla-day cheer and Solavellan sweetness soon. 
> 
> The journal entry in this chapter was meant to be written in Elvhen, but there as no way I was going to try to translate what I wanted to say. Project Elvhen is endlessly fascinating, but I'm reluctant to borrow from FenxShiral's hard work too much. A word or two is okay, but I think it's a bit too early to make too many assumptions on how Elvhen works. BioWare hasn't really given us all that much to go on. The fictional language is a strange cipher, our understanding of it is still shifting (see telanadas vs banalnadas), and the syntax is a big question mark. Plus you all would have had to scroll down to get the translation anyway. I've tried to stick to elfy words already translated in game/in official BioWare materials and will continue to do so. 
> 
> In chapter 2 I established that Solas had written that entry in Elven and that Lavellan couldn't read it, so I was kind of stuck. “He read the old words slowly, savoring their meaning,” was my attempt to put across that the italicized text was the meaning of the words rather than the words themselves. I hope that was clear, maybe, a little?
> 
> À bientôt, j'espère.


	5. Vir Adahlen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One dream ends and another begins.

Vir Adahlen

The Way of the Forest. Together we are stronger than the one.

 

  The pale early dawn came in through the parted curtain, through the sharp beveled edges in the glass—red and green, yellow and indigo, rainbow shards against the stark grey stone.

  “Telanadas,” Solas whispered again into the empty room, flashes of color playing on his thick lips.

  His journal and the brightly wrapped charm within had slipped from his lap in the night. It lay precariously close to the smoldering cinders in the hearth, open to a fresh blank page—blank but for one penetrative mark of blue-black ink. Quickly shaking off his drowsiness he scrambled out of the chair to retrieve the book. Kneeling at the hearth he lifted the volume to his face. He inhaled the scent of the warmed leather and laughed against its smooth pebbled grain. The future was not yet written. There was still time.

  Although not usually one easily shaken by things in dreams that First Day morning his nocturnal revelations had left Solas trembling with excitement, his heart swollen with the beauty of a strange new world of possibilities, of hope. Once more _s_ _he_ had changed everything, and he longed for his own future as he had not in millennia.

  They may never have forever, but there was still time—precious time for kisses and vows, for skipping stones and telling simple fanciful stories. And if there would be more it would be for all the people.

  The pale pastel sky between the parted curtains called to him, momentarily he wondered at the hour. The morning light came early in this part of Thedas, yet he wouldn't waste another moment in his lonely tower.

  In short order he'd donned his old comfortable clothes, which smelled of cedar and old lavender sachets after so long abandoned in a heavy Orleasian bureau. Still, the easy, woolen sweater, the worn trousers and fur lined vest suited him as if he'd never taken them off. Feeling much more himself, he retrieved the old familiar pack from the dust under the bed. He quickly stuffed his journal in amongst half empty bottles of dried herbs and extra foot bindings. Running to the chamber door, he flung it open wide and bounded down the old stone steps, taking two and sometimes three steps at a time.

  As Solas' foot hit the final step he lurched toward his sentinel, dropping a heavy hand on the guard’s shoulder. Lieutenant Noori gasped, her jewel toned eyes going wide, as if an assassin had leaped from the shadows. She staggered back a step, tightening her grip on her penknife, the wolf carving tumbling onto the floor. Realizing her error she hurriedly tucked the knife into her pocket, clinging to the absurd hope that the Dread Wolf hadn't noticed that she wasn’t keeping as attentive a watch as she should have.

  “Have they left yet?” Solas was breathing heavily after his sprint down the stairs.

  Noori's eyes fell to his heaving chest, to his modest manner of dress, to the varghest scale knapsack, to the old charm about his neck. She hardly knew him in his new guise, but his use of the common tongue took her by greater surprise. Nevertheless, she answered in kind. “I am not certain I understand, sir.”

  “Have they left? To secure the artifact?” he clarified impatiently.

  “Ah,” Noori attempted to regain her composure, trying hard to forget about the carving lying on the floor between them, but her trepidation left a betraying quiver in her voice. “Everyone is still taking their morning meal, harhren.”

 “Good, good,” he said nodding to himself as he spoke. Still at breakfast—with the aromas of spiced porridge and brewed Seheron java lingering in the air, he should have guessed. “Go and tell them the mission is off—”

  "Off, hahren?” Noori said, frowning.

  “Yes. Plans have—changed. Tell the others they may do as they like until I return—perhaps tomorrow.” His focus turned to the carving. “No more than a fortnight I should think.”

  Noori cringed, swallowing the growing lump in her throat as she watched him stoop to retrieve the wayward carving. “Of course, hahren. Any other orders?”

  “Nothing further.” Solas turned the figurine in his hand such that he could better admire the expertly carved profile of the noble beast. “You are quite skilled, lathallan,” he said kindly.

  Noori released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The Dread Wolf seemed to be in an unusually good mood. It was strange, but Noori knew better than to question her good fortune. “It is nothing—a foolish distraction to pass the hours—but thank you,” she replied dismissively, extending her hand to collect her silly carving.

  Solas started to hand it back, then drew it back, reconsidering.

  “I wonder. Would you mind if I kept this? I believe I know someone who might enjoy it.”

  Puzzled, Noori stared a moment, unblinking, before responding. “As you like, hahren.”

  “Ma serannas, lathallan.” He slipped the carving into his vest pocket and nodded his dismissal before striding off in the direction of the manor vault.

  The Lieutenant started toward the dinging hall when she suddenly remembered her primary duty. “Hahren!” she called back to her master, jogging a few paces back toward him. “You are leaving? Shall I arrange for an escort?”

  He tilted his head in quiet consideration, pursing his lips. “No. It is a—a personal matter—I should think an escort will not be necessary,” he said, hoping his customary authoritative tone might mask the sentimental intention at the heart of his trip.

  For the sentinel it was an unexpected response. _A personal matter?_ “Ma nuvenin,” she managed to stutter with a minuscule bow before watching the man quickly disappear down an adjoining corridor.

 

* * *

 

  The manor vault was a veritable trove filled with forgotten treasures which would rival any objets d'art found in the archives at the University of Orlais or the most highly regarded Tevinter museums. The most prized possessions of the manor's original inhabitants had been lovingly locked away behind a heavy shard sealed door since before the Fall, saved from the ravages of time and the sticky fingers of looters by powerful wards. In truth much the collection would have held little value in the days of ancient Arlathan—practical items tucked away for later use, not unlike the trunks of toys, heirloom wedding gowns, and old fishing rods found in many modern Thedosian attics and basements.

  Solas lit the sconces with soft blue flames and drifted through the relics with light-footed reverence. The contents of the room had been inventoried by his sentinels, but the vault had been left largely as found. There were wool wrapped crystal chalices and porcelain plates; an oversized brass vase enameled with twisting vine motifs, perched on a marble pedestal; a brightly painted two person sled, a rack of recurve bows, still strung with gleaming magic infused cord; wooden crates filled with children's storybooks, volumes of ancient poetry, and dogeared texts concerning both magic and music theory; and the sylvan wood cradle he'd seen in the fade, half draped with a linen tarp. They were all rightfully _her_ _s_ to claim whenever she wished.

  It didn't take him long to find the specific treasure he sought at the bottom of a trunk of young men's cotton tunics and woven silk leggings. Solas sat back on his heels, tracing his fingers over the patterns carved into the oval leather case. It took some effort to unfasten the stiff, tarnished silver latches, but the treasure nestled in the dark crushed velvet within was just as he'd seen it in his dream. He would not come to her empty handed. It was First Day, after all, and he owed his heart a gift. Despite what Cole had shown him, after all that had passed between them, he could only hope she would accept.

  He bowed his head as he closed the case, latching the lid. A few eluvians, less than two hours' travel if he kept up a swift pace, were all that divided them—not a desert, not an unbridgeable chasm. “Var lath vir suledin.” His whisper echoed against the plain plaster walls.

  Then someone cleared their throat, politely announcing their presence. He glanced behind him to see a rather concerned looking Cillian standing in the open doorway.

  “Lethallin,” Solas called over his shoulder, standing and slinging the case's broad strap across his body. For once there was no sarcasm in his voice when he called the elf his kin. “Is this not a fine morning?”

  “Well, yes. I—I suppose it is.” Taken aback by both the attire and manner of the changed man before him, Cillian furrowed his long brow and stepped cautiously into the vault. “The Lieutenant said you called off the mission.”

  Solas came to stand beside the other elf. He inclined his head. “I did.”

  Cillian crossed his arms over his armored chest. “Why? Is—is there something wrong?”

  He laughed lightly, a genuine smile lifting his sharp features in the pale blue light. “Nothing is wrong, quite the contrary in fact.”

  It was impossible—such a metamorphosis in the mere passing away of an evening. Cillian's jaw hung open, his eyes looking for answers in the ancient's glinting, grey irises.

  Solas adjusted the straps of his pack to better accommodate the extra parcel. “I regret to inform you, I won't be attending the festivities this evening, but perhaps you might save me some of those lovely hearthcakes.”

  The arcane warrior shook off his astonishment. “Gladly, lethallin,” Cillian replied nodding enthusiastically.

  “Good, good.” Solas heard a shuffling in the passageway, and leaned over to see Sable coming up behind her lover with a question on her face. Solas nodded slightly at her and his smile broadened. “Well, I should be going. It seems I have a prior engagement.”

  “Engagement?” Cillian murmured to himself as Solas moved past him into the torch lit hallway.

  “I nearly forgot. Happy First Day.” Solas' voice rang loudly in the awkward silence. “To you both,” he added before rushing down the corridor.

  “And to you, sir,” Sable shouted when Cillian could not find his voice. She wrapped her arms around his still form tightly as they listened to hurried footfalls slapping against ancient stone.

 

* * *

 

  Once beyond the manor walls, in the crisp Winter air, Solas felt as though he could fly. The warm sunlight, the perfect blue sky, the tiny soft alpine blooms that sprang defiantly from the frozen terrain—he gulped down all the beauty of the world in deep breaths to the point of giddy inebriation. He ran as fast as his unaccustomed limbs could carry him, occasionally slipping, ungracefully across the lake toward the still eluvian on the shore.

  He fade stepped the final stretch, coming face to face with an effigy of his former master. A traditional “Winged Mythal,”chiseled from quartz veined summer stone and flanked by two smaller howling wolves, kept their eternal vigil astride the portal. Solas unlocked the mirror with a flash of his eyes then paused before the weathered, diminutive representations of The All Mother's obedient guardians.

  There was a heaviness upon his chest. His hand came up to clutch at the blackened jaw bone—the protective amulet, the silent remembrance, the sharp tooth that bit. It was not a pause of indecision but one of understanding. In a fluid motion he lifted the familiar cord over his head and looped the collar around the more dilapidated wolf's cracked stone neck before stepping through the eluvian's brilliant, churning surface.

  Once he'd reached the Crossroads, it took him only a moment to locate the counterpart to Merrill's unusual gold framed mirror. The twisted vine and root embellishments were unmistakable. It also helped that it was one of the few intact portals he had left locked. Luckily, the power he'd inherited from Mythal would allow him safe passage even without the appropriate key. Still, he hesitated, his hand just above the cold surface. The Fade spoke to him of a taint, and although the evil had been purged, a sad history hovered just above the glass—a small glory restored at great cost.

_A lesson learned too late_ , he recalled Cole's riddle of roses and thorns and brought the magic to life.

  He emerged in the darkness of Merrill's spare room and quickly sealed the portal behind him. It was all familiar to him—the slab sandstone walls, the creaky floorboards, the piles of books and clothes. It seemed just as it had in the Fade although now sunlight poured into the quiet dwelling through narrow barred windows.

  As he reached to unlatch the heavy door a troubling thought occurred to him. Ghilana had hunted him before. He had somehow managed to dodge Leliana's spies for two years, but he had never walked out into the middle of a crowded city, dressed in the same clothes an artist likely would have dressed him in for a wanted poster. He was not eager to be stopped so close to his destination; he wanted to come to _her_.

  A hat! Solas reached for a brown felt archer's cap conveniently hung on a coatless coat rack in the entry. It was an odd thing to find in the home of a mage, but Merrill had one of everything it seemed. He looked wretched in hats, but it would conceal his bald head at least...mostly. Although the new spymaster's standards would have to be immeasurably low for the minor addition of a silly hat to fool her scouts. It would have to do. Peering out one of the dingy windows, he saw that the former alienage was relatively quiet after the previous night's revelry. Still caution was necessary. In such a tightly knit community a strange man slipping out of a single woman's empty house would certainly draw suspicion. A handsome couple passed by the window on their way somewhere, but the square seemed otherwise deserted.

  Solas turned the latch and stepped out into the light. Discretely closing the door behind him, he replaced the latch with a simple telekinetic spell. Then he felt the light weight of tiny paws on his exposed toes. He looked down to see a kitten, a pale orange and buff tabby to be precise, bunting against his ankles...then the boy, staring at him wide-eyed from where he sat directly in front of Merrill's door. Golden curls tumbled around his confused little face and the exposed tips of his sharp ears. He tucked his chin into his oversized plaidweave scarf and clutched at his pet instinctively.

  “Who are you?” The boy scooted away from the stranger and screwed-up his face disdainfully. “What were you doing in Merrill's house?”

  This was unexpected. Solas crouched down in the hope of keeping their conversation more private. However, the closer proximity did little to put the boy's worries to rest, and his grip on the poor kitten tightened.

  There were few things Solas hated more than a lie, so he resorted to the truth.

  “My name is Solas. I came from a distant land through a magic mirror in Merrill's spare bedroom. I doubt she would mind my using it as we have”—he paused carefully considering his words—“mutual friends.”

  The boy blinked at him and released the cat. “Merrill really has a magic mirror? Truly?”

  Solas should have known the boy would stop listening after he mentioned something as singularly fascinating to a child's mind as a magic mirror hiding in his very own neighborhood.

  “She does,” he replied simply.

  Remembering Noori's carving, Solas retrieved the wooden wolf from his vest pocket and held it out for the boy to take. “Here. I want you to have this. A friend of mine made it.”

  The boy reached out then reconsidered. “Mamae told me not to take gifts from strangers,” he said meekly, drawing his pink lips into a little frown.

  “Very wise, your mamae...Very well”—smiling Solas placed the wolf on the ground and stood up—“I'll just leave this here, and if some little boy takes it when I leave it will be no concern of mine.”

  The boy tilted his head, carefully scrutinizing the features of Solas' face, and reached for the carving. “You don't really look like a burglar. You have kind eyes,” he declared with all the steely conviction of a five year-old elf.

  “Ma serannas, falon.” Solas dramatically doffed Merrill's feathered cap to the boy and turned to walk down the road and out of the elven quarter.

 

* * *

 

  Thanks to his experiences in the Fade Solas navigated the bustling Kirkwall streets as if a native. The loud clanging of the chantry bells tolled the nine o'clock hour as he approached Hightown. Passing through the market square, he spotted Lia tending a florist's stall, bundling red roses and Bells of the Dales into festive arrangements for First Day feast tables. So relieved was he to see her in her respectable corduroy coat, with her head held high, that he found himself veering toward her shop.

  “Good morning messere,” Lia greeted him cordially, continuing with her pleasant work.

  “Morning,” Solas said as he surveyed her wears. He could spare a moment, and Ghilana deserved something frivolous and beautiful.

  Another bouquet assembled she cinched her scarf tighter around her thin neck and carefully appraised her new customer. The woman looked him up and down, taking in the rustic style of his dress, the soft lines on his face, the fine leather case resting against his side, the archer's cap, the subtle language of his broad body. None of it matched, especially not the seemingly Dalish accent.

  Solas lifted a ghost flower to his nose and inhaled deeply. The blooms were found only in the Deep Roads beneath Vimmark Mountains; he was vaguely surprise to find them in a Kirkwall flower stall.

  “Last minute shopping then?” When Solas didn't respond she tried again. “Something for the wife perhaps?” She guessed that he was married; it was, after all, uncommon for an eligible elven man of his apparent age to remain single.

  “Perhaps,” he said cryptically, replacing the ghost flower in its hammered copper vase. “You have some rare specimens here.”

  “Some,” she said modestly. “A dwarven friend of mine brings them in when he has business with the Viscount. I have a few woodear lilies from the Brecillian Forest if she is fond of the more obscure.”

  Solas hummed to himself looking over the baskets and urns filled with all manner of colorful blooms. “I wonder, have you any dirthera'lath?”

  “Dirthera'lath?” Lia pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the name.”

  “They are fragrant, white, night-blooming flowers with narrow petals. They grow in clusters on long stalks.” Solas described the flowers in as much detail as he could recall with uncharacteristic patience. The he watched as the woman sorted through the vast catalog of flowering plants in her head.

  “You don't mean tuberoses do you?” She bent down fetched a basket of waxy white blooms from under the counter.

  Solas smiled broadly as the familiar fragrance overwhelmed his senses. “That is precisely what I mean.”

  The selection obviously surprised Lia. She raised her delicate eyebrows in surprise. Tuberoses were the flowers of passionate love stories, of forbidden affairs, not pretty posies a middle aged elf might buy for his wife.

  “Well, I'm glad we solved that mystery,” she said with a smile wrapping up a bundle of stalks in brown butcher paper. “I shall have to remember that, _dirthera'lath._ It's a pretty name.”

  Solas paid for the flowers and thanked Lia for her assistance, insisting that she keep the generous change as a First Day gift.

 

* * *

 

  Soon he found himself on Varric's doorstep. Solas stared at a small ceramic bronto planted amongst the daisies in the flower bed—an odd curio he'd neglected to spot in the Fade. He heaved a heavy sigh and stepped up to the painted blue door. He raised a trembling hand to rap against it. Then he stepped away. Their reunion should not be a public affair.

  Backing up he observed the position of the windows and chimneys. Judging by the thin wisps of white smoke, it seemed fires were only lit on the east side of the house. He slipped into the side alley and looked up. One window on the top floor was open. That would be Ghilana's. Although he never afforded himself the pleasure of her bed he knew her odd habit, how she preferred sleeping next to a scorching hot fire with the glass doors of her Skyhold chambers flung open to the icy Frostback air. It had reminded her of home, of nights spent around the campfire, of the comfort of her clan.

  Someone had fastened Wrought iron latticework to the side of the house presumably to aid a climbing vine, but on this occasion it would aid a foolish old elf in scaling his lady's ivory tower. Solas wedged the bouquet just under the flap of his pack, casting a barrier to hold it in place, and mounted the trellis.

  By the time he reached the second story window he was breathing heavily. It had been some time since he had exerted himself physically, or perhaps it was only that he was beginning to feel the effects of time on his mortal body.

  “Shiral lath'alas na'la tel'belannar'lin,” he muttered the old elven saying and chuckled at the absurdity of his current position and kept climbing.

  When he peered in the open window he saw that the room was unoccupied, but instantly recognized Ghilana's favorite great bear hide coat flopped on a brocade upholstered chair next to the gently burning fire. It was not easy, but he managed to hoist himself over the window sill and into the dimly lit chamber. He shrugged off his pack and inspected the flowers for damage.

  It seemed Varric had especially prepared the quarters for Ghilana's stay. A silver halla statuette sat on the mantel, bottles of her favorite Spring wine on a richly stained sideboard, a crumpled ring velvet duvet on the unmade bed.

  Solas walked to the dressing table and set the flowers down beside her things. His fingers ghosted over the silver handle of her brush, the silken threads caught in the bristles. The soft thud of steps beyond the bedroom door interrupted the silence.

  “On nydha, lethallan.”

  Elvhen words rolled effortlessly off his beloved's tongue.

  “Don't you mean good morning?” replied a more shrill lilting voice voice.

  The two Dalish women giggled in the hallway.

  “Sleep well, Merrill.”

  Solas concealed himself behind a carved dressing screen just as the door opened and Ghilana stepped into the room. He watched her intently from the shadows, through star-shaped holes, as she removed her dressing gown, revealing practical sleeveless flannel pajamas in a rich shade of cerulean and the scared over remains of her forearm. Even as he delighted in her beauty, in the very closeness of her, he cringed at the pain, the physical wounds, he'd inflicted upon her.

  Ghilana ran her fingers through her perfectly messy hair and approached the dressing table. She smelled the tuberoses before she saw them and reached for the mysterious bouquet instead of her brush. Solas saw her confused smile in the mirror. She raised the bundle to her pert nose and hummed her delight into the blooms.

  She looked at her reflection in the mirror and laughed softly. The Dalish taught all their children to be watchful, lessons learned and not soon forgotten from clever wolves and agile halla.

  “Demons have come to me in dreams dropping honey from their forked tongues in your voice,” she placed the flowers back on the table and turned toward the shadowed screen. “If you weren't wearing that ridiculous hat I might have mistaken you for one of their ilk.”

  The damned hat. Solas removed Merrill's cap and revealed himself to her. They stood across from one another a long silent moment.

  “Happy First Day, vhenan,” he said softly, and swallowed his pride.

  Like a huntress closing in on her prey, she stalked toward him, the fire from the hearth flashing gold in her almond eyes. “What is this? A cease fire for the holiday? A shem holiday at that.” She balled up her fist at her side, yet her bottom lip quivered, betraying her bravado. “Sometimes I think you must be a ghost reliving the same tortured moment, cutting out your heart every night before you take your rest.”

  Solas wouldn't begrudge her the conflicting emotions his presence brought to the surface, nor would he insult her with useless excuses for his mistakes. He only took a step forward and pulled the leather strap of the case from his torso. “I brought you a gift.”

  Fumbling with the ancient latches, he withdrew the lyre from the case, holding it up for her to see.

  Cautiously, his heart crept closer. Her fingers danced over the warm wooden surface, worn tenderly by centuries of playing and polishing. Ghilana's eyes smiled despite the tears that slipped from them as she lightly traced the shamrock shaped sound hole with her index finger. “Solas.” His name tumbled from her lips like a prayer. “It is beautiful, but I can't—”

  He set the lyre back in the case and dared to reach between them, drying her tears with the pad of his thumb, cupping her face like a precious jewel. “I would learn to play it for you, if you would allow me the honor.”

  His touch was like a soothing balm against her skin. She watched as his grey irises constricted and dilated with the ebb and flow of the fire, with the beating of his heart.

  “What does this mean, Solas?”

  "It means—it means you were right. We will find another path"—he took her hand in his—"together, another way to save our people.”

  _Our people,_ he had realized at long last, their fingers and fates indivisibly entwined, as the twisting roots and sprawling branches of one eternal tree.

  “And if we can't?” she asked quietly tightening her hold on his long fingers.

  “Then...I shall treasure everyday we have together in this world.” If the spirits had taught him any thing it was that he could not destroy one world to save another—that despite his conviction and misguided surrender to duty, he would not.

  There were more tears, and when she spoke again it was in a small voice, broken with the threat of barely contained emotion. “And you won't—you won't leave, like you did before because I couldn't—”

  Solas wrapped his arms around his heart and held her fast to his chest. The uncertainty he had fostered in her broke his heart. Her trust was a fragile thing, but he knew it could be rebuilt, like so much else, in time.

  “Never, never again, not as long as I live,” he vowed burying his face in the softness of her hair, her natural bouquet as intoxicating to him as any fragrant flower.

  Rubbing her dampened cheek against the familiar roughness of his sweater, she listened intently to the beat of his heart—loud, strong, steady—and the memory of a simpler time returned to her as if not a day had passed. “Well...then”—she pushed herself away from his chest and placed a soft kiss on his smiling lips—“you must live forever, vhenan.”

  “I shall endeavor to, if only for your sake.” Solas chuckled, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, and bent down to capture his heart's sweet mouth in one of many tender kisses.

  And when at last they fell into bed that First Day morning, tired limbs lovingly tangled in contented embrace, it was not to make the love they'd both yearned to for so long. There would be time for that and for so much else. Instead they sought to weave the tapestry of their shared dream, to sew the seeds of their hopes in one another's hearts, to learn to sing a new chant together. Solas did not yet know the words to the unfamiliar song, but he would hum along in earnest until they came to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elfy Bits:  
> lethallan/lethallin – cousin/kinsman  
> var lath vir suledin – our love will endure  
> ma nuvenin – as you wish  
> telanadas – nothing is inevitable  
> ma serannas – my thanks  
> falon – friend  
> dirthera'lath – “confession of love,” (It's literally tell love,but I like my translation better. 8P)  
> Shiral lath'alas na'la tel'belannar'lin – Love is a country better crossed by the young…A crazy construct assembled from only BioWare approved Elvhen inspired by one of my favorite songs, The Wallflowers' “Love is a Country.” Literally it's: Journey love earth is of blood without many years (I think).  
> On nydha – goodnight (one of fenxshiral's phrases from Project Elvhen)
> 
> Dear Reader,  
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read my little tale. I hope that you enjoyed it and that you will consider leaving a comment below if there was anything you particularly liked, if you see any typos, or if you have any helpful criticism for me. I truly appreciate your readership and feedback.  
> I wanted to fill you in on the bride/wife/vows thing that I kept throwing in this. The last time I played through the Crestwood scene I started wondering about Lavellan's odd animations before Solas tells her about the vallaslin. It occurred to me that she looked at if she was waiting for something...as if the devs might have intended for it look as if she expected a proposal. I decided to go with that interpretation for this story because I hadn't really seen other writers taking that angle.  
> Last big hugs to all those who've left me kudos. It's nice to know a few other people got some enjoyment out of this. I've read many wonderful Solavellan fics on AO3 this last year, and I'm glad to contribute what I can to such a creative and supportive community. Take care, and I wish you much luck in 2016! ;)


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